


Green-Eyed Snake II: Harry Potter and the Heir of Slytherin

by Tathrin



Series: Green-Eyed Snake [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Book 2: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Gen, Slytherin Harry, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-07 19:12:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 110,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tathrin/pseuds/Tathrin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s his second year at Hogwarts and Harry Potter wants to try out for the Slytherin team, but when a House Elf shows up in his bedroom and strange voices start whispering to him from the walls, Quidditch may become the least of his concerns…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dobby's Warning

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to _[Green-Eyed Snake](http://archiveofourown.org/works/172462/chapters/251750)_ , an AU story in which Harry Potter, due largely to meeting the Malfoys, rather than the Weasleys, while trying to get to platform nine-and-three-quarters, finds himself sorted into Slytherin. This second volume of Harry’s life as a Slytherin begins with an excerpt from _Chamber of Secrets_ , starting on page nineteen of the American hardcover version. This is just after Dobby’s disastrous visit which, aside from some obvious differences in dialog (such as a lack of discussion of Harry’s encounter with Voldemort at the end of _The Philosopher’s/Sorcerer’s Stone_ , which did not happen in this world), occurred just as it did in the original version of JKR’s work. Rather than recounting all of that, I’m just going to trust that you can all make the necessary assumptions, and move along to the main point of divergence.
> 
> As with the first volume, this story will often quote directly from the source material, as well as paraphrase and, on occasion, gloss over parts rather than retell sections that remain nearly identical to the original version; in such instances, I trust that you’ll be able to simply incorporate what you already know. After all, I don’t want to change anything that wouldn’t be changed by Harry’s new, different life. As such, things will become more divergent as time passes, and the ripples from this change spread out through the world. Other things will, of course, happen exactly as they did originally, since Harry would have had no direct effect upon them occurring. 
> 
> I am not trying to steal Jo’s words and pass them off as my own; I’m sure you’ll all be easily capable of recognizing the original wording when it shows up. It should be rather familiar. I have chosen not to mark the quoted sections as doing so disrupts the flow of the story. I am not doing this to steal, but rather to maintain the original flavor and feel of _Potter_. I’m certainly not doing it to be lazy; I assure you, it was much more time-consuming to find all the relevant passages, and much more difficult for me to try and write in a way that would (hopefully) seamlessly integrate Jo’s words rather than to simply let loose in my usual tone. But I thought it was important to incorporate these bits and sections. I think the story is somewhat more disturbing when it feels like you’re reading the original _Harry Potter_ …just with a strange, greenish twist. 
> 
> Thank you. I hope you enjoy.
> 
>   
>    
> 

“Then Dobby must do it, sir, for Harry Potter’s own good.”

The pudding fell to the floor with a heart-stopping crash. Cream splattered the windows and walls as the dish shattered. With a crack like a whip, Dobby vanished.

There were screams from the dining room and Uncle Vernon burst into the kitchen to find Harry, rigid with shock, covered from head to foot in Aunt Petunia’s pudding.

At first, it looked as though Uncle Vernon would manage to gloss the whole thing over. (“Just my nephew—very disturbed—meeting strangers upsets him, so we kept him upstairs…”) He shooed the shocked Masons back into the dining room, promised Harry he would flay him to within an inch of his life when the Masons had left, and handed him a mop. Aunt Petunia dug some ice cream out of the freezer and Harry, still shaking, started scrubbing the kitchen clean.

Uncle Vernon might still have been able to make his deal—if it hadn’t been for the owl.

Aunt Petunia was just passing around a box of after-dinner mints when a huge barn owl swooped through the dining room window, dropped a letter on Mrs. Mason’s head, and swooped out again. Mrs. Mason screamed like a banshee and ran from the house shouting about lunatics. Mr. Mason stayed just long enough to tell the Dursleys that his wife was mortally afraid of birds of all shapes and sizes, and to ask whether this was their idea of a joke.

Harry stood in the kitchen, clutching the mop for support, as Uncle Vernon advanced on him, a demonic glint in his tiny eyes.

“Read it!” he hissed evilly, brandishing the letter the owl had delivered. “Go on—read it!”

Harry took it. It did not contain birthday greetings.

> Dear Mr. Potter,
> 
> We have received intelligence that a Hover Charm was used at your place of residence this evening at twelve minutes past nine.
> 
> As you know, underage wizards are not permitted to perform spells outside school, and further spellwork on your part may lead to expulsion from said school (Decree for the Reasonable Restrictionof Underage Sorcery, 1875, Paragraph C).
> 
> We would also ask you to remember that any magical activity that risks notice by members of the non-magical community (Muggles) is a serious offense under section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlocks’ Statute of Secrecy.
> 
> Enjoy your holidays!
> 
> Yours sincerely,  
>  ** _Mafalda Hopkirk_**  
>  Mafalda Hopkirk  
>  IMPROPER USE OF MAGIC OFFICE _  
> Ministry of Magic_

Harry looked up from the letter and gulped.

“You didn’t tell us you weren’t allowed to use magic outside school,” said Uncle Vernon, a mad gleam dancing in his eyes. “Forgot to mention it… Slipped your mind, I daresay…”

He was bearing down on Harry like a great bulldog, all his teeth bared. “Well, I’ve got news for you, boy…I’m locking you up…You’re never going back to that school…never…and if you try and magic yourself out—they’ll expel you!”

And laughing like a maniac, he dragged Harry back upstairs.

Uncle Vernon was as bad as his word. The following morning, he paid a man to fit bars on Harry’s window. He himself fitted a cat-flap in the bedroom door, so that small amounts of food could be inside three times a day. They let Harry out to use the bathroom morning and evening. Otherwise, he was locked in his room around the clock.

 

Four weeks later, the Dursleys were still showing no signs of relenting. Harry’s trunk was packed for school just in case and on the morning of September 1st he woke early, sick and anxious, and waited at the door of his room with baited breath.

But nothing happened.

Two hours later his meager breakfast (half a bowl of soggy wheatabix) was pushed through the cat-flap like it was on every other morning and when he called through the door there was no answer, just the sound of Aunt Petunia’s shoes hurrying away down the hallway. Harry pounded on the door and yelled but no one came.

He threw himself on his bed in a wave of despair. Hedwig hooted despondently from her cage. What was going to happen to him if the Dursleys didn’t take him to the train? Would someone be sent to see why he hadn’t come back? Would they be able to make the Dursleys let him go?

Harry looked at the clock next on his nightstand. The glowing numbers read 10:47. Then 10:52. 10:56. 10:58. 10:59…

11:00.

Then, 11:01.

That was it, the train was gone.

The Hogwarts Express had left, and he wasn’t on it.

Harry stood up. He pulled out his wand and pointed it at the door. The spell was on his lips— _alohamora_ —but he didn’t speak. He stood there for a while, trembling with indecision.

What was the good of magicking himself out of his room if Hogwarts would expel him for doing it? Where would he go if he left—where _could_ he go? It was Hogwarts or here, and if he couldn’t go back to Hogwarts…

Harry chewed his lip until it bled then, finally, with a low wail, he flopped back onto the bed, his wand dropping from his listless hand. Harry heard it roll away across the floor of his room. He didn’t bother getting up to go after it; what good would it do him? Here, on Privet Drive, in the Muggle word, it was just a bit of stick.

And Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, was just a prisoner.


	2. The Malfoys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must warn you, I am going to take a certain liberty with the start of this chapter. I base this decision off the fact that the later _Potter_ books all tended to begin with a sort of “prologue” chapter, one that focused on different characters—often Death Eaters—and more diffuse events, before narrowing back into Harry and his life. Granted, I have already had a first chapter, but it really wasn’t much of one, was it? Definitely more of a prelude, I would say. As such, I don’t think it is too much of a stretch to now leave Harry where he is for the moment and, briefly, journey on without him. I assure you, the story will soon return to its proper, Harry-centric format. I appreciate your indulgence.

Three stiff figures with identically pale blond hair and haughty expressions stepped onto the platform at King’s Cross Station. Although the family had arrived early at their son’s insistence, a small crowd was already milling around, creating noisy chaos. The great red steam engine was there as well, gleaming and shiny, its doors open and waiting. Students poured on and off the train: settling trunks, finding seats, leaving their parents, meeting friends, and running back to their families for whatever they’d forgotten. At the far end of the platform a search was currently underway for a missing toad. 

The Malfoys ignored all of that, the two adults idly glancing about with disinterested disdain. Their son, however, was peering around, his pointed face pinched into a frown. Whatever he was looking for didn’t seem to be there yet. 

“He’ll be along, Draco,” Lucius Malfoy drawled. 

“I’m not _looking_ for anyone, father,” Draco snapped back, annoyed and lying. He crossed his arms and sulked. Draco had been sulking for much of the summer and his father was running out of patience with his son’s mood. 

It was—as were most unfortunate things in the Malfoys’ lives—the fault of one Harry Potter, that regrettable Boy Who Lived. 

Draco had come off the school train cheerful and smirking, full of chatter and plans for the summer. His parents had quite approved of his desire to have Harry Potter over to visit. They were eager to show the boy off to their friends and especially to their enemies, and Draco had wasted little time in issuing his first invitation. 

It wasn’t until five owls and three invites went unanswered that Draco started sulking. He had made allowances for the Muggles, like his mother advised, but five letters with no response was a bit much, even if Harry _was_ trapped somewhere awful with _those people_. 

Draco had tried a few more times—his last few owls very terse and grumpy—but Harry hadn’t deigned to answer a single one. 

This was an affront not only to Draco, who had thought that he was Harry’s friend, but to his parents, as well. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy had hinted to more than a few influential people that they would soon be having Harry Potter at their house. Now that he had failed to materialize, they were embarrassed and cross and if it wouldn’t have been utterly undignified, Lucius would have had several unkind things to say to the boy when next they met. 

Draco, being only twelve and thus rather less concerned with dignity than his father was, had several things of his own to say, and no plans to hesitate in saying them. Nobody made a fool of Draco Malfoy, least of all some orphaned half-blood. 

That was the purpose of their early arrival: Draco wanted to make sure that Harry knew what a mistake he had made in blithely chucking aside Draco’s coveted friendship.

But the hour of departure drew nearer and the platform grew more and more crowded, and still Draco did not spot his (former) best friend. His other two mates arrived on schedule, of course: Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle; both tall, both stout, both a bit stupid, but both clever enough to be perfectly loyal to Draco. 

They and their parents greeted the Malfoys politely, Misters Crabbe and Goyle just as deferential towards Mr. Malfoy as their sons were to Draco. Everyone in their little group knew _exactly_ who called the shots, which was just the way Draco—and his father—preferred it. 

When Draco decided that it was time to get on the train, his friends followed his lead, with short farewells to their parents. It took Draco longer to disentangle himself from his own mother and father, both of whom insisted on hugs and last minute advice and checking to make sure that he hadn’t forgotten anything, despite his annoyance with the delay. Draco was in no mood for being cuddled, especially in front of his mates. 

When his father reminded him, for the hundredth time, to make sure to keep his marks up, Draco had had enough. “I know, all right?” he snapped. “Watch my grades, make the house team, outdo the Mudblood, stay out of trouble, and keep my head down. Is there anything else? Maybe I should run for Minister of Magic while I’m at it?”

“Lucius!” Narcissa hissed, scowling at her husband as she enfolded her petulant son in her long arms. 

“You’re doing just marvelously, sweetheart, don’t listen to your father, he’s just grumpy because of all that business with the Ministry.” Narcissa kissed both of Draco’s cheeks. He made a face and tried to squirm away but she didn’t let him. He didn’t try all that hard; he was used to his mother’s sloppy affection, even if he’d rather she not demonstrate it when his friends were watching.

Right now she was scowling, but not at him. “Now, Lucius,” Narcissa said, “do apologize, and then I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense.” 

Lucius rolled his eyes, but did as Narcissa commanded. “I am sorry, son,” Lucius said, somewhat stiffly. “I simply know what you’re capable of, and want to see you achieve your due greatness.”

Draco sniffed. “Well, that’s all right then,” he said grudgingly. “I am pretty great, so…” Draco shrugged. Lucius could not help but smirk. Narcissa beamed and smoothed her son’s robes. “That’s my brilliant boy,” she murmured. 

Draco rolled his eyes, unconsciously aping his father. “If you’re quite done, mother,” he complained, “I really would like to get on the train and see if I can find Po—somewhere good to sit,” he amended quickly. 

“Try not to feel too badly about it, darling,” his mother told him, placing a kiss on his forehead. “Your father and I know you tried your best, and it’s hardly _your_ fault that the wretched boy is so rude and stupid. There was only so much you could have done, anyway; breeding will out, you know...” Narcissa sniffed.

Draco’s pale cheeks colored. “Well that doesn’t excuse him being a git,” he grumbled. 

Lucius patted his shoulder. “Just don’t let your temper get the better of you,” he cautioned his son. “Remember what we talked about—”

“Yes, yes, judicious retribution, discreet revenge, don’t be caught, I remember,” Draco interrupted. “Now can I go?”

“Of course you may, darling.” Narcissa kissed him again. 

Draco finally extricated himself from her grasp with a half-feigned grumble of annoyance. He jerked his hand imperiously and Crabbe and Goyle promptly fell into step behind him, all three boys turning to climb onto the gleaming red train while their fathers passed their trunks up and everyone called final farewells, all speaking at once in a jumble that merged unintelligibly with the rest of the tumult on the platform. 

Draco didn’t stay to hear what else his parents had to say, but set off at once in search of a free compartment to sit in—and a certain Harry Potter to teach a lesson to. 

Several minutes later their trunks had been stowed securely; anyone who didn’t know better than to intrude on the compartment they’d thus claimed would be promptly shown their error, probably via Crabbe’s or Goyle’s fists, so the boys weren’t worried about leaving their things behind to go in search of their absent housemate. 

Several minutes after that, though, there was still no sign of Harry Potter. Draco was getting crosser and crosser with each moment, until he started getting worried. “Go ask Granger if she’s seen him,” Draco ordered a less-than-enthused Crabbe. He certainly wasn’t going to go talk to the Muggle-born know-it-all girl himself, but Potter had gotten friendly with the swot—somehow—and there was the chance that she might know where he was hiding. So Draco sent Crabbe to find out. That was what one had friends _for_ , after all: doing the things one would rather not do, oneself. 

Crabbe did as he was instructed, grumbling the whole time. Draco waited impatiently, leaning out one of the windows to scan the platform. There was still no sign of Harry out there, and when Crabbe came back, grimacing in disgust, a few minutes later, he reported that Granger hadn’t seen him either, nor had she heard any word from him over the summer. 

Draco frowned. “Right,” he said, “you two stay here.”

He didn’t wait for his friends’ acquiescing nods, but hopped immediately back off the train. 

It wasn’t hard to find his parents; they were right where he had left them, waiting to watch and make sure that the train got off all right with its precious cargo. Draco squirmed his way through the crowd towards them. 

“Father, mother!”

“Draco! What’s wrong, darling, did you forget something?”

Draco ignored his mother’s concern. “Potter’s not on the train,” he said.

“I fail to see the problem,” Lucius sneered. Narcissa smirked. It would serve the awful boy right if he missed his ride back to Hogwarts, after he’d treated her son so shabbily. 

“I think it’s his Muggles,” Draco said. “They’re horrible, even for Muggles, from everything Harry’s said, and I think…” He chewed his lip. “I think,” he said, tremulously hopeful, “that maybe it was them stopping him from writing all summer. Maybe they’ve done something, and now they’re stopping him from going back to Hogwarts, too, and they…they have him locked up, or something, so he couldn’t see anyone, or write back, and…” Draco scuffed his shoe on the ground and did not say, _and maybe he’s still my friend after all_ , but his parents could see it in his eyes. 

Lucius and Narcissa exchanged a glance. “Even if that is the case, what do you expect we could do about it?” his father asked, sounding bored. 

“You could go find him,” Draco suggested eagerly. “You can make the Muggles let him go, father, surely.”

“Find him how, Draco?” Lucius asked. 

“Their last name is Dursely,” Draco offered. “Potter’s Muggles, the Dursleys.”

Lucius closed his eyes and sighed heavily. Narcissa gave him a very pointed look. “Very well,” Lucius agreed reluctantly, “I’ll see if I can find these… _Dursleys_.” He grimaced. 

Draco grinned. “Thanks, father.” He gave Lucius a quick hug, ducked his mother’s arms, and darted back towards the train, which was whistling insistently. Draco shoved his way through the disorganized arrival of several red-haired wizards, exchanging habitual glares with the shortest boy, and jumped back onto the train just before it let off a final blast and started its slow pull out of the station. 

Lucius and Narcissa watched it leave. Lucius grimaced again. “Why did I agree to this foolhardy endeavor?” he complained. 

“Because our son asked you to,” Narcissa replied simply. 

Lucius frowned. “You do know I’m going to most likely get a visit from the Minister, wondering what I’m doing, going around bothering Muggles?”

“And when you tell him that you’re helping Harry Potter,” Narcissa smiled sweetly, “won’t he be impressed?” 

Lucius sighed again. “Marvelous,” he said, and turned to go begin the tedious task of tracking down Potter’s filthy Muggle family. 

 

Evening had fallen over the streets of Little Whinging. Everyone was settling in for the night, dinner long put away and the cold glow of electric lights streaming from the windows of the blank-faced houses and the lamps that lined Privet Drive. 

There was a CRACK, like a car backfiring, and a tall, cross-looking man with pale blond hair and a long black cloak was suddenly standing on the corner. He looked tired and annoyed and the sneer on his face seemed to be a permanent fixture. His gray eyes were very cold and he frowned as he counted house numbers. The sneer deepened when he spotted the brass plaque that indicated which one was number four. It was a small, square building with a low garden wall in front of it and several flat, square windows and chimneys. The hedge was neatly trimmed and the flowerbeds were small and tidy. 

It looked, all in all, very normal, and very plain, and very boring. 

The man clicked his tongue in disgust. He stepped over the garden wall and strode up to the front door with the air of a person doing something extremely unpleasant. This was not the first such awfully ordinary house he had visited today; he could only hope that, finally, this one might be the last. 

He rang the bell. 

Harry was lying on his bed in a stew of misery. His glasses had slipped halfway off his face so the room was partially blurred, but he couldn’t summon the energy to right them. What did it matter if his vision was fuzzy? All he could see was the bare ceiling of his bedroom at Number Four, Privet Drive. He knew what that looked like. 

He didn’t even bother to raise his head when the doorbell rang. The only sound he cared about hearing right now was the flapping of wings outside the window. He kept straining his ears, but the only feathers he heard were Hedwig’s as she rustled sulkily in her cage. Surely— _surely_ —someone would notice he wasn't there? Surely— _surely!_ —Hogwarts would send _someone_ …?

There was a commotion downstairs but Harry wasn’t listening to that, either. He was waiting for the owl that would rescue him—if anyone cared at all. If only that stupid elf hadn’t stolen all of his letters. If only Uncle Vernon hadn’t padlocked Hedwig’s cage. If only Harry could dare risk using his wand. He knew the spell… 

“Alohamora.”

Harry jerked upright as the door slammed open. He stared, gaping, at the blurred shape before him. Hastily, Harry righted his glasses, but clear vision didn’t make what he was looking at any more believable. 

Lucius Malfoy, his best friend’s father, was standing in the hallway. In Harry’s aunt and uncle’s house on Private Drive. In the very, very Muggle neighborhood of Little Whinging. Harry’s Muggle aunt and uncle peered aghast over the tall man’s shoulder. Uncle Vernon was red with indignation and Aunt Petunia was actually trembling, she was so outraged. 

Malfoy was wearing a long black cloak and an annoyed expression. The wand he held in his gloved hand was pointed right at Harry, who swallowed hard. 

“Potter,” said Malfoy.

“Um…sir,” said Harry.

Malfoy lowered his wand. “Locked up by Muggles,” said Lucius, his face curling into a sneer. “How abhorrent. And Dumbledore actually sent you to these… _people_ , did he?”

Harry just nodded dumbly. 

“Well. I’ve said for years the man was daft. Get your things, Potter, you’re late for school.”

Harry gasped and scrambled off his bed. “R-right,” he said. “Um, they—they wouldn’t take me to the train,” he tried to explain, “because I did magic, well I didn’t, but the Ministry—”

But the Ministry chose that moment to make their presence known. An owl soared upstairs from the open front door and dropped a letter on Harry’s bed. Harry recognized the seal. It was the same as the letter that had warned him not to do any more magic, or risk expulsion from Hogwarts. Harry reached for the letter but Lucius Malfoy got to it first. 

He slit it open without so much as a by-your-leave, skimmed the note with a haughty sniff, and twirled a quill up between his fingers out of nowhere. He scribbled something on the note, folded it up, and returned it to the owl, who flew off with a hoot. 

Malfoy dusted his hands off and the quill vanished. “That’s that sorted,” he said smugly. “Don’t worry about the Ministry, Potter, I’ve informed Cornelius that you’re in my hands now and he’s not to fret over any magic coming from this… _house_.” He ran cold eyes up and down the hallway and his lip curled in a sneer. Aunt Petunia’s face colored darkly.

“Who’s Cornelius?” Harry asked anxiously. He had re-read the Ministry’s letter often enough to know that it was Mafalda Hopkirk he had to worry about, and just because Cornelius—whoever _that_ was—cared what Lucius Malfoy said didn’t mean that _she_ would.

Malfoy smirked. “Cornelius Fudge, of course, Potter. The Minister of Magic? Surely you’ve heard of him.”

“Oh,” said Harry. 

“The Minister of What Now?” Uncle Vernon barked. “You listen to me, I don’t care who you are, this boy is under my roof, and I won’t have…you…”

Lucius Malfoy took a step closer to the belligerent Muggle. He was a good deal taller than pudgy Vernon Dursley. In the face of Malfoy’s haughty indignation Dursley deflated. Harry’s uncle had always tried to rule Harry’s life with pompous, blustering authority, but now next to Draco’s father he had never looked less intimidating. 

“I beg your pardon?” Malfoy said coldly. 

Uncle Vernon swallowed hard. “You…you heard me,” he said, his ruddy face gone pale. His mustache trembled nervously. “That…that boy is our…we won’t have you…some weirdo like…” His small eyes traveled up and down Lucius Malfoy’s eccentrically but undeniably well-dressed frame. 

The man was obviously anything but a Muggle, in his long cloak and pointed boots, but he was also just as obviously wealthy. Aunt Petunia actually licked her lips as she stared covetously at the ornate pin that fastened Malfoy’s rich cloak. Harry bit back a grin and wondered how the Dursleys would manage to cope with the unexpected collision of everything they despised with everything they idealized.

Malfoy blinked at the Muggles. “Are you trying to speak?” he asked, askance. “What on earth makes you think I have any interest in what Muggles like yourselves have to say?” he asked them. 

Aunt Petunia squawked and Uncle Vernon sputtered like a kettle that had been left on the stove too long. Harry actually laughed aloud and quickly clapped a hand over his mouth before the Dursleys noticed.

“Come, Potter,” said Malfoy. “I’ve spent long enough on this endeavor as is, and it is high time you were returned to Hogwarts.”

“I tell you he is not going!” Uncle Vernon shouted. “Sir,” he added quickly, when Malfoy glanced at him. “That, that is…I don't think…”

“Clearly not,” Malfoy replied condescendingly. “Do stop trying. You’ll only embarrass yourself further…if that’s possible.” His lip curled in distaste; he clearly didn’t think it was. 

Harry choked on his strangled laughter. 

“Come along, Potter,” Malfoy said again, beckoning imperiously. “Are you packed?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said quickly. He bent to grab his wand off the floor, where it had lain since the morning. Malfoy watched him impassively. Harry hoped that he wouldn’t have to explain the fit of sulkiness that had caused his most treasured possession to go skittering across the floor like a bit of loose change. 

“All ready,” he said. Harry’s face felt very hot but Lucius Malfoy said nothing, just waggled his hand in the general direction of Harry’s things. His trunk and Hedwig’s cage floated across the room to bob politely at Malfoy’s side. The Dursleys yelped. 

Hedwig hooted anxiously. 

“It’s all right, Hed,” Harry soothed the frightened owl. “We’re going back to Hogwarts after all, isn’t that great?”

Hedwig subsided grudgingly, tucking her head under her wing.

Malfoy strode out of the bedroom imperiously, the Dursleys falling back around him to make way. Their eyes were very wide and a muscle in Aunt Petunia’s jaw twitched like she very much wanted to say something, but didn’t dare. Harry followed the tall wizard and his floating possessions. 

“See you next summer,” he muttered to his petrified aunt and uncle out of the corner of his mouth as he passed. He was careful not to look at them for fear that he would burst out laughing.

Harry clattered down the stairs and out the front door, struggling to keep up with Lucius Malfoy’s long-legged strides. He seemed very impatient to be gone and kept looking around at his Muggle surroundings like they offended him.

“Thanks,” Harry panted, catching up when Malfoy stopped at the edge of the Dursleys’ neatly-trimmed lawn. “I mean, really. Thank you. If you hadn’t come, I don’t know how…”

Malfoy nodded curtly and held out his arm. “Yes, clearly,” he said. “Now come along, before the Muggles can cause a scene.”

“Come along…where?” Harry asked. 

Malfoy blinked and Harry got the impression that he had narrowly resisted rolling his eyes. “To Hogwarts, of course,” he said, offering his arm a bit more insistently.

“But how?” Harry asked. 

“We’re going to Apparate, obviously,” Malfoy said, wrapping his other hand around the handle of Harry’s trunk. “Take your owl and hold on tightly.”

Harry did as he was bid, bewildered, and put his fingers gingerly on Malfoy’s dark sleeve. Malfoy turned, pulling Harry with him. 

Then the world turned inside out and something tugged, hard, at Harry’s insides, and at Lucius Malfoy’s arm. Harry clutched it tighter and everything pulled away sharply. Hedwig shrieked from very far away. Everything went black; Harry was being pressed hard from all directions; he could not breathe, there were iron bands tightening around his chest; his eyeballs were being forced back into his head; his eardrums were being pushed deeper into his skull and then—

Just as Harry thought that he was surely going to be squished into nothing, the compressing feeling vanished. He staggered, panting, into cold and empty air. He felt as though he’d just been forced through a very tight rubber tube. Harry shivered, wishing that he’d thought to change into his robes, or at least put a jacket on over his thin T-shirt, and he looked around.

It was night time and there were trees all around. Harry was at the edge of what looked like a small, old-fashioned village, and Lucius Malfoy was standing next to him. Harry felt sick. He wobbled and Malfoy steadied him absently. 

“First time Apparating, Potter?” Malfoy asked. 

Harry nodded. 

“Mmm,” said Malfoy. “Well, best to just walk it off,” he advised, and set off down the road, Harry’s trunk and Hedwig’s cage following him obediently. Hedwig hooted unhappily. 

Harry hurried to keep up, despite feeling like all of his limbs were out of place and his empty stomach was going to find something to retch up at any moment. 

It was a long time before Harry collected his wits enough to speak. 

“Where were we?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at the village they had left behind them. 

“Hogsmede,” said Malfoy. He didn’t seem inclined to offer any further explanation, so Harry just nodded. “Right,” he said. After a few more minutes of walking, he asked, “why?”

“One cannot Apparate directly to Hogwarts, Potter,” Malfoy said. “Hogsmede is the closest civilized destination, and I had no desire to add a visit to the Forbidden Forest to this evening’s already trying escapade.”

“Oh,” said Harry, “right. Okay.”

He followed Malfoy in silence. Just as his legs started to drag, his spirits were suddenly lifted by the most welcome sight that Harry had ever seen: _Hogwarts_. 

The great castle came looming up over the trees, its windows blazing with light. Harry grinned and walked faster, his exhaustion forgotten. 

“Thanks again,” he said to Malfoy, meaning it with every fiber of his being. “I mean, _really_. I owe you big time.”

Lucius Malfoy smiled. 

“How did you find me?” Harry asked, suddenly curious.

Malfoy shrugged. “I simply visited Muggles named Dursley until I found some who reacted to the name Harry Potter,” he explained. 

Harry had to laugh, imagining confused Muggle families all over England. 

“That’s brilliant,” he said, “but how did you even know I needed help?” Harry asked, wondering for the first time what had sent Lucius Malfoy to Privet Drive as Harry’s savior. 

“Draco was worried about you,” Malfoy replied, “when you didn’t turn up at the train after a whole summer without any communication. He asked me to track you down and make certain that your Muggles hadn’t done something barbaric.” Malfoy arched an eyebrow. “Like lock you up.” 

“Yeah, I’m sorry I didn’t write or anything all summer. I wasn’t getting my letters.”

“Yes,” said Malfoy, “I imagine not. I’ll have a word with Cornelius, see if something can’t be done about those Muggles of yours.”

“No—I mean, yeah, thanks, that’d be—but they weren’t the problem. I mean, about the letters. Well, they locked up Hedwig so I couldn’t write to anyone else, but there was also a—”

“Lucius?”

“Severus,” said Malfoy, nodding his head in greeting. “Good evening.”

For the first time Harry noticed that there was someone hurrying towards them from the castle. The other’s black robes and hair had merged with the darkness and Harry, distracted by the welcome sight of Hogwarts, had not realized that he and Draco’s father were no longer alone. 

Severus Snape, the Potions Master at Hogwarts, came walking quickly down the dark lawn. He was a tall, skinny, sallow-faced man with greasy hair, a hooked nose, and an almost perpetually unpleasant expression. And, despite being head of Harry’s house, he had never seemed to like Harry very much at all. 

There were times that Harry suspected that the Potions Master actually hated him. 

“I got your message, Lucius,” Snape said. His voice sounded strange, almost strained. “Did you find him? Is the boy all right?”

Malfoy nodded. “Potter’s with me now,” he said, gesturing behind him. Snape’s gaze snapped to Harry, who flinched. 

“Er…hello, professor,” Harry mumbled.

Snape’s black eyes glittered. “Potter,” he said coolly. 

“Um, I’m sorry I missed the train…” Harry started to explain, wondering if he could get detention for something that had happened before school started. At least he shouldn’t be able to lose any house points for it—right? Of course, Snape had never hesitated to punish Harry before, and just because this wasn’t Harry’s fault didn’t mean that he wouldn’t do so again…

“The Muggles had locked him in,” Malfoy interrupted.

Snape’s sneer of disgust exactly mirrored Mr. Malfoy’s. “Appalling,” said Snape. “I’ll speak to Dumbledore.”

Malfoy nodded. “For all the good that will do,” he smirked. 

Snape’s expression thinned. “Well,” he said. There was a moment of awkward silence. “Thank you for bringing the boy,” Snape said, sounding as close to gracious as he ever got. 

“But of course,” replied Malfoy. “Least I could do.”

The two men exchanged smiles again. “You’ll come up to the castle?” Snape asked. “After dealing with Petunia Evans and her Muggle husband, I’m sure you could use a drink.”

Malfoy shook his head. “No, I should head home. Cissy will no doubt be wondering where I am.”

Snape nodded. “Of course,” he said. “Give her my best.”

“I shall. Have a good evening, Severus.”

“Er, good night, Mr. Malfoy,” Harry said. “And thanks again.”

They shook hands, Malfoy wishing Harry luck this year and cautioning him to stay out of trouble. Harry promised he would, and after another nod at Snape, Lucius Malfoy left, walking back down towards the village so that he could Apparate home. 

“Come along, Potter,” Snape said coldly. The Potions Master flicked his wrist and Harry’s trunk and owl floated after him just as they had for Mr. Malfoy. Harry hurried to keep up. 

“Um, thanks,” Harry ventured. “For, um, getting me…”

Snape grunted. 

“Er…the feast, um…”

“The feast is nearly over, Potter. We will go straight to your common room, rather than bothering with the fuss of the Great Hall at this point.”

“Ah,” said Harry. His stomach rumbled. After weeks of being nearly starved by the Dursleys, he had been greatly looking forward to the endless delicacies of the Hogwarts start-of-term feast.

Either Snape decided to take pity, or he just didn’t want to hear Harry whine, because he said grudgingly, “I will see to it that something is sent up for you from the kitchens.”

“Thank you,” said Harry fervently. His stomach loudly agreed.

He followed Snape the rest of the way into the castle, and down to the dungeons, in silence. He wished his common room was closer. Being alone with the Potions Master was uncomfortable. Snape radiated displeasure and Harry couldn’t think of anything to say.

Snape dropped Harry’s trunk as soon as they crossed the threshold of the Slytherin common room, although the disconsolate Hedwig still bopped tiredly in her cage at his side. Harry gave her a little wave, but didn’t dare open his mouth. He figured—hoped—that Snape would take her up to the Owlery. 

“Have a good night, Potter,” Snape said curtly. He jerked his wand and a tray with sandwiches and pumpkin juice appeared on one of the small side tables. 

“Thank you—” Harry began, but Snape had already turned and vanished through the door in a swirl of black robes. 

Harry flopped tiredly into the nearest chair and gazed around his common room with affection. No, he hadn’t gotten to ride the train, and no, he hadn’t talked to anyone all summer, and yes, he’d nearly gotten in trouble with the Ministry, and yes, he had missed the start of term feast, but he was back at Hogwarts at last, and soon his friends would come down from the Great Hall and join him. 

Harry looked around at the heavy stone walls, and the age-darkened furniture, and the green lamps dangling from the ceiling, and he beamed. 

Finally, he was back where he belonged. 


	3. Gilderoy Lockhart

Harry yawned several times on his way to breakfast. His dorm-mates had kept him up very late, making him repeat the story of Lucius Malfoy’s rescue several times while they all chuckled over Harry’s stupefied relatives. Of course, Harry hadn’t slept well during the weeks of his imprisonment, either, and now he stared around at the Great Hall through glazed eyes. His lack of sleep didn’t affect his appetite, though, and Harry eagerly dug into the marvelous morning repast. 

The four long tables were laden with tureens of porridge, plates of kippers, mountains of toast, and dishes of eggs and bacon, beneath the enchanted ceiling (today, a dull, cloudy gray that could not dampen Harry’s mood). Harry ate some of everything, happily making up for the long weeks of privation spent locked in his bedroom. Only Crabbe and Goyle ate more, and it was a near thing. 

Harry suspected that they did so only as a matter of pride, unwilling to let anyone outdo them at the breakfast table.

Draco ignored all three of them, absently spooning at his porridge while he read what looked like an especially lengthy letter from home. He snickered several times (Harry had a feeling the Dursleys were responsible) and twice he rolled his eyes while making little noises of exasperation. Then he folded the letter up, tucked it inside his robes, and leaned against the table to watch the end of the impromptu eating contest. 

The boys were on to their last bits of toast—except for Goyle, who was occupied with scooping up the blobs of jam that had escaped to his plate—when they were interrupted by a sudden looming, dark figure: Professor Snape was sweeping along the Slytherin table, handing out course schedules. Harry took his with a polite, “thanks, professor,” that Snape completely ignored, although the Potions Master managed a dour, “Good morning,” for Draco. 

Snape looked, if anything, even less happy than he had last night, and he kept darting mutinous glances up towards the High Table. Harry cautiously leaned out over the back of the bench to see if he could spot the source of Snape’s ire without being caught looking. 

It turned out to be very easy, because the person that Snape was glaring at would have stood out in any crowd, Wizarding or Muggle, and considering some of the things that Harry had seen wandering around Diagon Alley last year, that was saying a lot. 

This particular wizard was bright enough to easily pick out of the line-up of regular professors, most of whom looked more disgruntled than was usual, especially the ones sitting closest to the stranger. Professor Vector—a stern-looking witch who taught Arithmancy, whom Harry had never met—had actually pulled out a book to act as a sort of buffer between herself and the broadly-gesticulating man sitting in the chair next to her. 

Harry couldn’t tell how tall the man was, as he was sitting down, but even from this distance he looked almost ridiculously handsome. Harry could see that he had bright blue eyes and a very big, shiny smile. The pointed turquoise hat perched jauntily on his wavy hair perfectly matched his ornate robes and he was beaming around at everyone as if he couldn’t imagine ever being happier. Harry, personally, would never have even entertained the idea of so carefree a smile if Professor Snape was glaring at _him_ like that, but perhaps the handsome wizard hadn’t noticed the Potions Master’s sour temper. 

Harry leaned back in towards his comrades, and whispered to Draco, “who is _that?_ ” 

Draco glanced over to see where Harry was looking, and smirked. “Gilderoy Lockhart,” he replied, as if Harry had just stupidly asked him to identify England’s most well-known celebrity. Draco cocked an eyebrow. “Our new Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor?” he continued, his tone bordering on condescension. “Surely you’ve heard of _him_ , Potter?”

Harry shook his head. “What is he, some sort of famous actor or something?”

Theodore Nott, a weedy boy sitting on the other side of the table, snickered. Harry scowled. 

“I suppose you’d call him a bit of an adventurer,” Draco explained, ignoring Nott. “Travels around ridding tiny little out-of-the-way places of their magical maladies and monsters, then writes books about his exploits that make him a lot of money.”

“And make lots of witches _swoon_ ,” cackled Vincent Crabbe, batting his eyelashes. 

Harry snorted pumpkin juice up his nose and spent the next several minutes coughing it back out. “You’re joking,” he gasped, once he could speak again. 

“Nah,” said Crabbe, and rolled his eyes. “My mum thinks he’s _swell_ ,” he added in a tone of disgust. 

“My dad says he’s barmy,” Goyle offered. 

“Only because your mum fancies him too,” Draco teased. 

Goyle scowled. “Does not,” he muttered. “Anyway, your mum…”

“Yeah?” Draco raised an eyebrow. “What about her?”

“Nothing,” Goyle muttered. 

Harry snickered. “What about yours,” he asked Nott, “does she have a thing for our new professor as well?”

“She’s dead,” said Nott flatly. 

Someone kicked Harry under the table, but he couldn’t tell whom. “Er,” said Harry, “sorry.”

Nott shrugged and returned his attention to his half-finished eggs. 

Harry put his fork down and tried to turn invisible, but with his dad’s cloak safely packed away in his trunk down in the dormitories, he didn’t succeed. 

 

The disorganized chaos that always followed breakfast at the start of term, with no one really knowing where they were going, and everyone trying to find a classmate to follow or double-check a schedule with, gave Harry the opportunity to slip away from his friends and most especially from Theodore Nott. He hoped that by the time they all got to class everyone would have forgotten how far he’d managed to put his foot in it. 

Harry knew that if his friends decided to be cross with him today, he would find himself in trouble once he got to class. He hadn’t managed to get to Diagon Alley, of course, while he was locked up, so he didn’t have any of the new textbooks required for the year. It was going to be bad enough admitting to his professors that he hadn’t been allowed to do any of his homework over the summer; unless his friends let him look off their books, he wasn’t going to be able to do any now, either. His supply of parchment and ink was also dreadfully low, and he was certain to end up having to borrow some off his friends while he tried to figure out what to do about his lack of supplies. 

He pushed his way through several Gryffindors, wishing absently that he had waited for Crabbe and Goyle to help clear a path. 

“Harry! Harry Potter!”

Harry turned to see a determined girl with a lot of bushy brown hair fighting her way through the crowd. Her name was Hermione Granger and she was without a doubt the cleverest person that Harry had ever met. Despite being in different—and often antagonistic—houses, Harry had become friendly with the bookish young witch last year, thanks mainly to a rogue troll and a lengthy detention. 

“Harry!” Hermione came hurrying over. “Why didn’t you write me all summer? I was getting really worried, did something happen, is Hedwig—”

“Hedwig’s fine,” Harry interrupted quickly. “And I would have written if I could, honest, but there was a crazy little—”

“What do you mean, ‘if you could’?” Hermione demanded, her brows snapping together in almost the exact same fashion that Professor McGonagall’s did when the Transfiguration Professor was presented with incomplete homework. “You have an owl, don’t you?” she continued crossly, “I managed several letters, _and_ a birthday card, as I’m sure you know, and _I_ had to find a wizarding post office in _France._ I don’t see what—Oh,” Hermione interrupted herself as Harry’s friends came ambling up behind him. “Malfoy, Goyle, Crabbe…nice to see you all again,” she greeted them without enthusiasm. 

“Likewise,” Draco sneered, meaning just the opposite.

“H’lo,” Goyle mumbled. Crabbe elbowed him in the ribs.

“Now, what do you mean you _couldn’t write?_ ” Hermione asked again, turning back to Harry with a frown. 

“He was stuck with Muggles,” Draco spoke before Harry could say anything, “I’d think _you_ would know how _that_ works, Granger.” He smirked coolly. 

Hermione scowled. “Better than you,” she retorted sharply. Harry wasn’t sure if she meant that she knew Muggles better than Draco did, or that she would rather spend time with non-magical persons than with the pale Slytherin wizard. Hermione didn’t stay to clarify, but spun around on her heel to hurry up and join the rest of the Gryffindors, who were making their way down to the Greenhouses. 

Harry sighed. He had thought that Draco had gotten over his problems with the Gryffindor girl, but apparently a summer apart had put them right back where they’d started. 

Somewhere a bell rang insistently and the Slytherins trudged upstairs to Transfiguration, Draco shooting a dark scowl over his shoulder at Hermione’s retreating back on his way out of the Great Hall. 

Harry ignored him. 

It was good to be back at Hogwarts, even if his friends were feuding again. 

It was even good to be back in class, although Professor McGonagall was likewise unchanged: just as strict and stern as ever, and just as demanding. Fortunately she also still seemed inclined to reserve the use of textbooks for revision, so Harry didn’t have to admit to the intimidating witch that he hadn’t gotten his yet. 

Today’s was a practical lesson, although Harry thought it was a bit unfair to start their first day back with such a tricky assignment. Everything Harry had learned last year seemed to have leaked out of his head during the summer. He spent most of the class chasing a beetle around his desk. It kept scurrying away from the point of his wand, which made it very hard to try and transfigure it into a button. 

Crabbe squashed three beetles, mostly accidentally, which had him leaving class with an additional assignment of twenty lines on material wastefulness. By the time the bell rang Harry’s brain felt like a wrung-out sponge.

Draco boasted about how easy an assignment it had been, and showed off two glistening black buttons to prove it. Then Theodore Nott quietly walked past, tossing what looked like at least five buttons casually in the air. He flashed them all a brief, smug grin, before hurrying off down the hallway. Draco scowled and shoved his buttons into a pocket without another word. 

Harry snickered. 

Then it was down to Herbology with the Ravenclaws, where Professor Sprout lectured them all on some truly ugly plants called Mandrakes that they had to re-pot. Harry ended up having to wear obnoxious pink earmuffs, because Goyle had tripped him in order to snatch the last decent pair from the pile. 

Harry got his own back by “accidentally” knocking a big clump of dirt onto the larger boy, but by the end of class they were all of them muddy and disheveled anyway. When Professor Sprout signaled that class was over, Harry gratefully peeled the horrifying pink earmuffs off and tossed them at the pile with disgust. He hoped that the remaining Mandrakes would be dealt with by the other second years, and that the Slytherins had seen the last of the horrible little things. 

For plants, they had certainly put up a great deal of fight. 

Everyone hurried back to the castle to wash up before lunch. After the exertions of Herbology, they ate ravenously, especially Harry, who was still making up for several lean weeks with the Dursleys. Harry was so focused on his food that he completely missed Hermione’s attempt to catch his attention and by the time he looked up again, the Gryffindor girl had already been swept out the door by the tide of her housemates. 

Harry’s small group of Slytherins followed a little more slowly, since Crabbe and Goyle were almost always among the last to leave any meal. They went outside into the overcast courtyard.

Harry looked around and saw Hermione sitting with her nose in a book; one of Professor Lockhart’s judging by the photo on the cover. The bright-eyed wizard gazed out at Harry with a wide smile that was nearly as large as life. He kept winking. 

Harry thought about going over to say hello. He wanted to explain about the House Elf, and Uncle Vernon padlocking Hedwig’s cage, so that Hermione would know that it hadn’t been Harry’s fault that he hadn’t written over the summer. He didn’t want her cross with him, especially not if McGonagall’s button project was an indication of how much more difficult their classes would be this year. 

Hermione was by far the smartest person Harry knew, and he had come to appreciate how helpful she could be when one had a difficult assignment to finish. 

Harry glanced at his friends, trying to gauge what their reactions would be if he went to talk to the Gryffindor girl. Draco was still a little sulky over being outdone by Theodore in Transfiguration, but Crabbe and Goyle seemed cheerful enough. Harry made his mind up to chance it—they had History of Magic next anyway, so any argument would probably be driven out of their minds by sheer boredom within the hour—but he never made it over to Hermione. 

Harry’s path was blocked by a very small, mousy-haired boy. He was clutching what looked like an ordinary Muggle camera, and the moment Harry looked at him he turned bright red. 

“All right, Harry? I’m—I’m Colin Creevey,” he said breathlessly, taking a tentative step forward. “I’m in Gryffindor. It’s my first year. D’you think—would it be all right if—can I have a picture?” he said, raising the camera hopefully. 

“A picture?” Harry repeated blankly. 

“So I can prove I’ve met you,” said Colin Creevey eagerly, edging further forward. “I know all about you. Everyone’s told me. About how you survived when You-Know-Who tried to kill you and how he disappeared and everything and how you’ve still got a lightning scar on your forehead” (his eyes raked Harry’s hairline) “and a boy in my dormitory said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures’ll _move_.” Colin drew a great shuddering breath of excitement and said, “It’s _amazing_ here, isn’t it? I never knew all the odd stuff I could do was magic till I got the letter from Hogwarts. My dad’s a milkman, he couldn’t believe it either. So I’m taking loads of pictures to send home to him. And it’d be really good if I had one of you” —he looked imploringly at Harry— “maybe your friend could take it and I could stand next to you? And then could you sign it?”

Draco had come over to see what was going on, and now burst out laughing. “A signed photo?” he said. “You want a _signed photo?_ ”

Creevey shrank back. “It—it’s for my dad…” he mumbled. 

Crabbe and Goyle joined the sniggering. Harry’s face felt as red as Creevey looked. He scowled at his friends. “Shut-up,” he muttered. 

Draco laughed harder. “Oh come on, Harry,” he said, grinning, “give the little Mudblood his photo. You can put it down as donations to charity—where’s Weasley? He can get one too, sell it and buy his parents a proper house.” 

A red-haired boy halfway across the courtyard whipped around to glare at Draco and Harry. 

“No thanks,” Harry growled. 

Draco stepped forward and slung an arm around Creevey’s shoulders. “But Harry, how can you say no to someone _this_ pathetic?” he asked. Creevey blushed harder and tried to squirm free. Draco glanced down at the smaller boy and suddenly grimaced. He moved away quickly and brushed at his robes, like he’d just touched something disgusting. 

“S—sorry to bother you, H-harry Potter,” Creevey muttered. He swallowed hard and seemed to be trying not to cry.

Harry sighed and wrinkled his nose in exasperation. “No—Creevey, was it? Hang on, he didn’t mean…”

But the small boy had already darted off, his face stricken. 

Harry glared at Draco. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said. 

“Oh, have I chased away your little fan? I’m sorry,” Draco said, still grinning. He snickered. “Don’t worry, you can always apologize with an autograph, I’m sure he’ll forgive you. And if he’s still grumpy, let him lick your shoes, that should cheer the brat right up.” 

Crabbe and Goyle howled with laughter. 

“You are such a jerk.”

All three boys stopped snickering to stare at Hermione Granger. She had shut her book with an angry snap and stalked over to stand in front of them, scowling dangerously. She rounded on Harry. “And I can’t believe you let him talk to people like that for you,” she snapped. 

“I wasn’t—” Harry stammered, but Hermione didn’t let him get a word in. 

“He didn’t mean anything by it,” she said, turning back to Draco, “and you certainly didn’t have to go making him cry.” 

Draco smirked. “Maybe I was just trying to see if he was brave enough to be a Gryffindor,” he said smugly. “Oops…looks like, _no_.” 

Hermione scowled. “You’re reprehensible,” she said. 

“Yeah,” another voice joined the discussion, “why don’t you sod off?”

Ron Weasley, apparently angered by the comment about his parents, had come over to stand behind Hermione. He had his hands on his hips and a belligerent expression on his freckled face. 

Hermione spun around to glower at her housemate. “Don’t you start!” she snapped. 

“What did I—?”

“He doesn’t need any encouragement,” Hermione said, “you’re only going to make things worse.”

“But I—”

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Hermione grabbed Ron’s arm and shoved him away. “We’ll be late for Defense, and it’s important to make a good first impression. Gild— _Professor_ Lockhart isn’t the type to accept silly excuses, I’m sure,” she continued primly, pushing Weasley along in front of her as she flounced away from the Slytherins. 

Harry thought about pointing out that Lockhart was just passing by the courtyard now, so he wasn’t going to be in his classroom to be impressed by her punctuality, but quickly thought better of it. Hermione looked pretty mad, and he didn’t want her directing any more anger his way than she already was.

“Yeah, get your boyfriend out of here before he gets hurt,” Draco called after the retreating Gryffindors. Weasley turned around to glare but Hermione ignored them all and since she hadn’t let go yet Weasley had no choice but to keep moving. Draco laughed unkindly, Crabbe and Goyle joining in.

Harry frowned at all of them. 

“What?” Draco asked, wearing an innocent expression. 

“Nothing,” Harry grumbled. “Come on…we might as well get to class, too.” 

 

History of Magic was just as boring as ever, made all the more so because the Slytherins had Defense Against the Dark Arts later, and all of them were eager to see what the adventurous Lockhart had planned. By the time Binns was halfway through his lecture, Harry was already fighting the urge to put his head down on the desk and flat-out nap. 

“Psst!” someone hissed. “Psst, Harry!”

Harry shook himself awake and turned to blink sleepily at Draco. 

“What?” he mouthed. 

“What kind of broom did you get?” Draco whispered. 

Harry glanced down at their ghostly professor but Binns was contentedly droning on, as unaware as ever that his class was resolutely ignoring him. 

“Haven’t got one,” he whispered back.

“What?” said Draco. “How are you going to try out for Quidditch without a broom?”

Harry’s spirits plummeted. He’d forgotten that, as second years, they would be allowed to try out for their house team. Quidditch was a wizarding sport that Harry had fallen in love with last year. It involved seven players on each team, all of whom flew around the pitch on brooms, chasing various flying balls. Of all the wonderful things at Hogwarts, Quidditch was probably what Harry had been looking forward to returning to the most, but without a broom, he’d be stuck on the sidelines. 

“I don’t know,” he said miserably, “I never got to Diagon Alley. I don’t even have my school books,” he confessed, glancing at Binns anxiously. 

Draco stared at him. “So write the shops and order them,” he said. “You have an owl, don’t you?”

Harry blinked, smacked himself on the forehead for his stupidity, and couldn’t help but laugh at how very much like Hermione Granger his friend had sounded. 

Harry quickly faked a coughing fit to hide his amusement from Binns, but the ghost wasn’t paying him any attention. 

“Okay,” he whispered, “but what kind of broom should I get?”

They spent the rest of History of Magic quietly discussing the merits of various broomsticks, which made it the most productive, educational class that Harry had ever had with Professor Binns.

He doubted that Hermione would have approved. 

 

They were still talking brooms and Quidditch later when they trooped off to Defense Against the Dark Arts with the rest of the second year Slytherins. 

They hadn’t heard a word of Binns, but Harry wasn’t worried. Draco never bothered to pay attention in History of Magic; if he wanted notes, he bought them from Theodore Nott—one of the few people who could fight the soporific effects of Binns long enough to scribble down anything even remotely useful—who, while from as rich a family as Draco’s, had a father who was more stingy with pocket money and presents than was Lucius Malfoy. 

Harry, as Draco’s friend, was usually lucky enough to be granted a peek at Nott’s notes as well. He didn’t know how he would have made it through History without them. 

There had, in fact, been several difficult weeks last year when Harry was avoiding Draco; fortunately he had spent most of that time with Hermione Granger who, while less inclined to accept bribes than Theodore was, could generally be prevailed upon to pity Harry enough to share her notes when he really needed them. He just had to put up with the accompanying lecture.

It took Harry a moment to realize that he wasn’t remembering one of Hermione’s previous rebukes, but hearing a new one. Her shrill voice, raised in displeasure, echoed around the corner:

“Well, you learned something!” she was saying waspishly.

“Sure—I learned that Lockhart’s a fraud.”

That was Weasley. What were the Gryffindors doing here? Even if they’d had Defense Against the Dark Arts last class, they should have been long gone by now. 

“I meant you learned a new spell!” Hermione snapped back shrilly. “You couldn’t do Freezing Charms this morning, could you?”

“Yeah, I learned it from _you_ ,” Weasley replied grumpily. 

“Well—well, I’m sure Professor Lockhart thought it would be good for you to learn _something_ , and—and practical exercises really are the only way, since it’s not like you’re inclined to learn out of _books_ , are you?”

Draco snickered, and Harry bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself grinning. 

The Gryffindors came around the corner and stopped dead at the sight of all the Slytherins. Weasley’s ears went red. 

“Class went well then, I take it?” Draco asked unpleasantly. 

Hermione turned slightly pink and answered primly, “perfectly well, thank you for asking.”

“Hermione—”

“I said it went perfectly well,” she overrode Weasley fiercely. “Come on, Ron, we’ll be late.” She brushed angrily past the Slytherins. Most of them stood aside, sniggering, to let her pass, although both Crabbe and Goyle tried to trip Weasley as he followed her. 

“We’ll be late because Lockhart made us stay to clean up his mess,” Weasley protested, but Hermione wasn’t listening. Harry tried to catch her eye but she was apparently still angry about the Creevey boy, and ignoring him. Laughter followed her and Weasley as they stomped away. 

When the Slytherins entered the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom they found a large cage sitting on the teacher's desk. There were several small, electric blue creatures inside, with pointed faces and sharp ears. Most of them hung utterly immobile, but a few were starting to struggle. Harry peered at them curiously. 

“Pixies?” Draco asked, his tone mingled confusion and disgust. “What on earth does he have _pixies_ here for?” As Lockhart was no where to be seen, no one could answer him. 

“Maybe they’re food,” Goyle suggested. 

Draco rolled his eyes. “For Merlin’s sake, Goyle, don’t tell me you’d eat a _pixie_...” he said. Harry laughed. 

Goyle’s thick face colored. “I meant food for something else,” he said quickly. “Like bait, or...” he shrugged. 

Harry laughed again but Draco looked thoughtful. “Hmm,” he said, “maybe...” 

They all turned to stare around the room, searching for signs of a dangerous creature lying in wait, ready to be lured out by the tantalizing prospect of pixie flesh.

The room, Harry saw, was very different from when Professor Quirrell had been in charge. For one thing, it all looked like it had been freshly scrubbed; gone was the dusty, slightly menacing air of age and neglect from last year, when one could imagine that the DADA classroom had been host to secrets and scars. Now it was all very bright and tidy with crisp yellow curtains hanging from the windows. There were several books piled on the desk next to the pixie cage and all of them seemed to have been written by Lockhart himself. There was no sign of a dangerous, pixie-eating creature hiding anywhere in the room, but that didn’t stop the Slytherins from peering under the desks in hopes of finding it. 

When the door banged open everyone jumped. Pansy Parkinson gave a little scream. 

The class hurried to find seats as Lockhart strode in, his turquoise robes billowing. He looked red-cheeked and short-of-breath and brushed several leaves and bits of twig from his otherwise eye-wateringly immaculate ensemble. He had his wand in his hand, which got everyone’s hopes up, but he stuck it in his pocket without a word. A murmur of disappointment ran through the Slytherins. 

Lockhart noticed the students with a shock, and quickly flashed them his apparently customary broad, beaming smile. He leaned against his desk and ran his eyes over the assembled second-years.

“Well,” he said, “here we all are.” He glanced sideways at the cage full of stirring pixies, frowned, and stood back up. He picked the cage up—several of the more mobile, rambunctious pixies chattered at him—and stuck it behind his desk. Then he turned back to the class, smiled again, and repeated, “well.” 

Harry looked at Draco, who looked back and shrugged. They both had their wands out, just in case something exciting might happen. 

Lockhart leaned forward and picked a book off of the first desk in the row. It belonged to Daphne Greengrass, who simpered gleefully at the professor. Pansy Parkinson, sitting next to her, shot her friend a look of darkest jealousy as Lockhart flipped through Daphne’s copy of _Year with the Yeti_. 

He held the book up next to his face, so that it looked oddly like a two-headed Lockhart was smiling at them. “Me,” he said simply, pointing to the book-cover. The book and the professor winked in unison. Draco gave a small snort of disbelief. 

“Gilderoy Lockhart,” Lockhart continued, sounding well-rehearsed, “Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Forces Defense League, and five-time winner of _Witch Weekly's_ Most-Charming-Smile award—but let’s not talk about that! I didn’t banish the Bandon Banshee with a smile!”

He waited for them to laugh. Pansy and Daphne both burst into shrill, sycophantic giggles as if on cue. Harry looked at Draco, who was looking back at him with the same horrified amusement that Harry felt. From the desk next to theirs, Goyle peered around Crabbe to look at Draco, perhaps wondering if he should laugh, as well. Draco gave a quick, dismissive gesture and Goyle settled back into his seat without a sound. 

Harry bit his lip, grinning. 

“Now,” said Lockhart, his eyes floating over the class again, “you all know who I am, of course! But let’s find out who all of you are!” 

He pulled the scroll that held the class list from his desk with such a flourish that Pansy had to duck to avoid being smacked in the face with the end of it. Lockhart never stopped beaming. 

He tilted the scroll in front of him and called off the first name in a loud, stilted voice: “Bulstrode, Millicent?”

Looking embarrassed at being the first called on, the tall, black-haired girl slowly raised a pudgy hand. When Lockhart winked at her she knocked three of his books off her desk, and dove to the floor to retrieve them. Her face was crimson when she re-emerged, but Lockhart had mercifully already moved on to the next name on his list: 

“Crabbe, Vincent!” 

Behind Harry, Crabbe’s thick arm raised slowly. Lockhart beamed at him, nodded, and continued, giving the scroll another little flourish of a shake as he read on: “Davis, Tracey?” he called, and the girl behind Pansy and Daphne held up her hand. Lockhart smiled at her and she shrank down in her seat, her cheeks very brown, and began to play nervously with her ponytail. 

Draco rolled his eyes at Harry, who had to cough into his sleeve to keep from snickering aloud. 

Lockhart went down the rest of the roll like that, pausing to grin at each student. The girls all reacted with blushes and giggles. Draco, to the amusement of the rest of the boys, mimicked their simpering, eyelash-batting acknowledgments with a shrill, “oh, here, Professor!” and a coy flutter of his fingers when his name was called. 

Crabbe and Goyle stuffed their fists into their mouths to smother their laughter, and Blaise Zabini nearly choked himself. Even Theodore Nott’s dour face twitched in a suppressed smirk, and Harry had to put his head down on his desk to hide his own amusement. Pansy and Daphne turned around to shoot Draco identical glares, but Lockhart didn’t seem to have noticed anything out of the ordinary. 

“Nott, Theodore,” he called, and the scrawny boy quickly raised his hand against an involuntary snort. Draco sat back with a smug grin and Harry gave him a discreet thumbs-up. 

When Lockhart called for “Parkinson, Pansy,” the dark-haired girl practically stood up in her seat to get his attention, waving her arm and beaming at him. 

“Here, Professor,” she gasped, “right here, welcome to Hogwarts, it’s so exciting to have you here!” 

Harry snickered at how closely she had unintentionally mirrored Draco’s earlier mockery, but Lockhart just grinned even more broadly at the breathless girl. 

“How nice of you to say, Miss Parkinson,” he told her, “how nice indeed! Yes, I’m very much looking forward to teaching all of you as well.” He winked. “And some of you, most especially!”

Pansy sat back down, blushing furiously, as the rest of the class tittered. 

Lockhart turned back to the scroll, smiling, and scanned the paper languidly. 

Suddenly he rocked back in his seat with a comically exaggerated start of surprise. “Well bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “ _HARRY POTTER?_ ”

Harry looked up at Lockhart. Everyone else looked at Harry. “Er,” he said, “yeah? I mean…present?”

Lockhart stood up, his mouth hanging open in shock, his blue eyes sparkling gleefully. “Harry Potter,” he said again, loudly, in case anyone had missed it the first time. 

“Um, hi,” said Harry, trying not to squirm under all the attention. Lockhart was new, Harry told himself; he should have expected something like this. Last year several of the teachers had made special note of Harry’s presence, most notably Flitwick who had fallen off his stool of books, and Snape, whose glower of recognition had been like icy water down the back of Harry’s neck.

Like everyone else, Lockhart would no doubt get used to Harry quickly, but right now it was unnerving being stared at like that. His smile really was almost unnaturally bright and Harry had to resist the urge to grimace back at the beaming professor. 

Harry also tried not to notice Draco preening beside him. 

“Look, professor, er, I do need to talk to you,” Harry said, because the silence was really uncomfortable. “I’m sorry I don’t have my books yet, I’m going to order them, but I couldn’t make it to Diag—”

“Harry,” Lockhart interrupted, “Harry, Harry, Harry.” He shook his head. His smile hadn’t flickered. 

“Er, sir?” said Harry. 

“Special treatment already, Harry?” Lockhart asked, clucking his tongue. He chuckled as Harry frowned in confusion. “Just because one may have a bit of celebrity, Harry, does not give one the right to take advantage of one’s fame! Why, just look at me!”

Harry did so, studying the turquoise-clad wizard dubiously. 

“Er, yeah,” he said, “right. Um, I’m not, er, asking for special treatment, or whatever, professor, really, I just couldn’t get my books, but I will—”

“Oh, Harry!” Lockhard interrupted. He shook his head again, still smiling. “Nothing to worry about, Harry, nothing at all!” Lockhart scooped a stack of books off of the desk beside him and swept forward, depositing the pile with a flourish on Harry’s desk. The thud of the heavy books hitting the wood made Harry jump. 

“There you are, Harry,” Lockhart said with a wink. “No harm in making a few exceptions, is there?” he asked conspiratorially. “Just don’t expect this sort of special consideration all the time! You’re not quite _that_ famous yet, are you? Not like me! But don’t worry, my boy, maybe someday!” 

He beamed at Harry, who stared at him incredulously, then swept back to the front of the room and flourished his scroll once more. Harry ducked down behind the stack of books, his face flaming, and directed a sharp kick at Draco’s ankle under their shared desk. 

Draco yelped, but the pain didn’t make him stop rocking back and forth with silent laughter. Harry glared over his shoulder at Crabbe and Goyle, who were sniggering quietly into their hands; Goyle actually had tears streaming down his thick cheeks. 

Harry sulked back forwards and shot Lockhart a look of deepest loathing. The grinning professor carried on, blithely unaware of Harry’s dislike, and called the rest of the roll. He ended with Blaise Zabini, rolled the scroll up with an elaborate flourish, bent down and picked it up from where it had rolled when he dropped it, and tossed the cylinder of parchment haphazardly down on his desk. 

“Well,” he said, “well, well, well.” He smiled at them. “So,” Lockhart said, clapping his hands together, “now you all know who I am, and I know all of you...” His eyes flickered to Harry, who squirmed and looked away. “Let’s see how _well_ you know me, shall we?”

Lockhart sprang up out of his chair and lifted a sheaf of papers from the desk beside him. “You all have a set of my books now—even our famous Mister Potter—” he winked at Harry, “so I think we’ll start today with a small quiz, just to see how much you’ve absorbed from them...”

He walked up and down the rows of desks, handing out thin packets of paper. When he reached Harry, Lockhart paused, and grinned at him. “Now, as you haven’t had a chance to read any of them yet, Harry, I suppose it wouldn’t make much sense to have you take this, now would it?” He waved the test papers over Harry’s head; Harry shrugged, and refused to meet Lockhart’s eye. “No, not at all,” Lockhart continued, winking. “Why don’t you get started reading instead, while your classmates busy themselves answering the questions?” 

Lockhart handed one of the tests to Draco, who shot Harry a jealous glare, and then he moved on cheerfully to give booklets to Crabbe and Goyle. 

Harry, his face burning, lifted the first book off the pile at random and opened it in front of his face so that he could hide behind it. He dimly heard Lockhart, returning to the front of the room, tell the class, “you have thirty minutes—start— _now!_ ” 

Harry tried to read, but his eyes blurred; it was impossible to take in the idea of Lockhart’s adventures, especially with Draco’s quill scratching grumpily next to him. 

Half an hour later, when Lockhart collected the papers and rifled through them in front of the class, Harry had learned little other than that Lockhart was a nauseatingly flowery writer with a penchant for run-on sentences and way too many adjectives. He was also exceptionally full of himself. 

“My goodness,” Lockhart said, “this will never do! I’m quite disappointed, class, very few of you seem to have read my books at all. In _Break with a Banshee_ I mention quite firmly that my favorite singer is Celestina Warbeck, and I think that all of you need to re-read _Year of the Yeti;_ Miss Parkinson here is the only one who remembered that my favorite color is lilac, although lavender was a close guess, Miss Greengrass,” he added with a wink at Daphne. Both girls blushed and giggled. 

“We’ll make that our first homework assignment, shall we?” Lockhart suggested. “ _Year of the Yeti,_ before our next class. And that should give Mister Potter a chance to catch up, too.” He winked again, although Harry carefully kept his head down so that Lockhart couldn’t catch his eye. 

“After that,” Lockhart continued, “I think we’ll move on to _Wanderings with Werewolves_ , and we’ll see how things go from there, shall we?” 

“That’s our homework?” Nott whispered, scandalized. Harry shrugged. 

“Sir,” Nott putt his hand up, “sir, excuse me, did you say that our homework was to re-read your books?”

“That’s right,” Lockhart replied cheerfully. 

“What about the pixies?” Zabini called, not bothering to put his hand up. 

Lockhart flushed. “Those were—ah—for another class,” he said quickly. “Nothing you need to worry about.” 

“So what are we doing for the rest of class, then?” Nott asked, still frowning. 

“Oh...I thought I’d let you get started on your homework,” Lockhart said, waving a hand breezily. “No sense overloading you with work on your first day back, is there?” He grinned at them all cheerfully. 

A few students managed to grin back, but Harry was busy exchanging a look of bewildered horror with Draco. _This_ was their new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher— _this_ was Gilderoy Lockhart, self-proclaimed heroic adventurer? 

“What a load of bollocks,” Draco muttered. 

Harry couldn’t help but agree. 


	4. Schoolbooks and Broomsticks

“Oh no,” Harry exclaimed, “I can’t order my books—I don’t have enough money!”

Draco lifted his nose curiously out of the latest broomstick catalog. 

“I never got to Gringotts,” Harry explained, “and I spent most of what I took out last year, I don’t have enough with me to pay for everything. What am I going to do?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You have them draw the money right from your account,” he drawled, “obviously.”

“Oh,” said Harry. “They can do that?”

Draco shrugged. “Of course,” he replied. “You write a promisory note, the shopkeep will take that to the Goblins, and they’ll pay your bill out of the funds in your account.” He paused. “You _do_ have a _full_ account, don’t you?” he asked. 

Harry frowned. “I don’t know,” he said, “what does that mean?”

“Is it one of the old vaults,” Draco explained, “or some new little deposit box on the upper levels?” His smirk was scornful.

“Well,” said Harry, “we did have to go down pretty deep, when Hagrid took me to my vault the first time...and it was pretty big inside...”

“Probably one of the old family vaults, then,” Draco said, with a careless shrug. “From your father’s side, no doubt.” He dropped his eyes back to the magazine. “You shouldn’t have any problem,” he distractedly assured Harry. 

Harry nodded, chewing nervously on his bottom lip. He hoped not...he _really_ needed his books, not to mention a broom! 

Marcus Flint had come around earlier that afternoon, to announce Quidditch try-outs to the Slytherins. “They’ll be Thursday after dinner,” he said. “We only have the one position open, so if you’re not going for Seeker, you better be brilliant on a broom to make it worth my time to look at you. I don’t see much point in changing a winning team, so if you’re not impressive enough to knock someone who’s already playing for us out of the running, don’t bother turning up.” 

Several of the current team members glared around the room, silently daring anyone to try and take their slot, and promising punishment to those who did. 

Harry swallowed hard, his desire to try for Seeker intensified. That was definitely the position for him, he knew, and if going for Seeker meant that Flint wouldn’t be mad at him for wasting time in case he turned out to be rubbish, all the better. 

“And keep mum about it,” Flint added. “I don’t want Wood and his gang coming to heckle, and the less the other teams see of us ahead of time, the less they’ll be able to prepare to have their arses kicked.” 

Harry grabbed one of Draco’s broomstick catalogs and started flipping through it hurriedly. 

Draco dropped onto the sofa next to him. “I have a Nimbus 2001,” he pointed out, “it’s the newest broom on the market, and definitely the best.”

“Do you think I should get that one, then?” Harry asked. “It’s fast, right?”

“Knocks the old 2000 series right out of the air,” Draco said, “and they were nothing to sneer at. The 2001s just came out in August, they’re the fastest broom available. They can go from standing still to over 100 miles per hour in just about ten seconds, and corner better than anything; they’re absolutely brilliant, really,” he gushed. “You wouldn’t believe how marvelous they are to fly on, it’s stupendous. 

“I feel bad for anyone who has to fly on anything less,” Draco continued, raising his voice. “Do you know, some of the Gryffindor team still fly on Cleansweep Fives?” he scoffed, and Crabbe and Goyle snickered. 

Marcus Flint, who was still standing nearby, in conversation with a fifth year girl that Harry didn’t know, grimaced; Flint had flown against the Cleansweep-mounted Gryffindor Beaters before, and didn’t enjoy it. None of the Slytherin players did. 

“I know _my_ father would never stand for that sort of thing,” Draco continued, speaking even more loudly. “He’s always been very generous with donations, you know, and any team that _I_ was on—well, he’d make _sure_ that _everyone_ on it had the very best.” 

His smirk turned nasty and he dropped his voice back to the ordinary, slightly-inflated tones he used when pontificating to his regular audience, saying, “but of course, I suppose there’s no one on Gryffindor’s team with parents who could afford to outfit an entire team, is there? Certainly not the Weasleys!” 

He laughed, and Crabbe and Goyle laughed with him, and Harry smiled uncomfortably. He didn’t much care for the Weasleys, especially the twin fourth years who flew Beater for Gryffindor, but he didn’t think that being poor was anything to be embarrassed by. 

“I swear,” Draco continued, “if their stupid father loves Muggles so much, he should just break his wand in half and go join them! Do you know, he’s trying to convince the Ministry to raid our house?!”

Crabbe and Goyle gasped with appropriate outrage, but Harry wasn’t listening. 

“What was that about?” he asked quietly.

“I know!” Draco exclaimed, “raiding _our_ house, can you even imagine it?”

“No,” said Harry, “I meant that...that thing you just did, about your dad and the brooms...”

“Oh, that.” Draco smirked. “Well, there’s only one slot open this year, and there will be lots of people trying out for it. It’s smart to make sure that the captain notices you ahead of time so that you’ll stick out of the crowd; that way you can be sure that Flint will be paying enough attention to you to notice how good you are at flying. After all,” he continued with a shrug, “we’re only second years, he might overlook us, and with talents like ours—” Harry was certain that Draco meant _himself_ more than he did Harry, but he didn’t interrupt— “well, that would be a crime, wouldn’t it?”

Crabbe and Goyle both nodded quickly; Harry moved his head as well, although he wasn’t sure if he agreed with everything that his friend was saying.

“And not just a crime against us,” Draco added, “because we ought to be on the team as a matter of course, but also against the _team_ , who would so greatly benefit from our skill—not to mention the whole house, who will need our help to win the Cup.” Harry saw Draco’s eyes dart over towards Flint, who had walked out of earshot by now, but whose heavy brow was furrowed speculatively, as if he was thinking something over.

Draco settled back against the cushions and picked his magazine up again, a smug expression on his pointed face.

Harry shrugged, not exactly comfortable with that reasoning, but he did have to admit that his friend had a point...they _were_ only second years, and surely it couldn’t hurt just to be noticed...

  
  


Harry was forced to revise that opinion quickly, although it wasn’t because of Flint, or Draco; rather, it was Gilderoy Lockhart who made Harry change his mind.

Harry only made it to the second chapter of _Year of the Yeti_ before he gave up; based on the way Lockhart would veer over to Harry every time he saw him, beaming and bubbling with good cheer and unwanted advice, Harry had the feeling he wouldn’t actually have to know any of the nonsense in Lockhart’s books to get a good grade from the obnoxious wizard.

He wasn’t the only one to have picked up on Lockhart’s love of fame and flattery, either; Draco was soon earning a handful of points for Slytherin nearly every class thanks to well-phrased compliments on Lockhart’s eye-watering ensembles. 

Harry didn’t know how the other boy could bear to suck up like that to their preening professor, but he wasn’t going to object to anything that earned points for their house. 

For his part, Harry spent a lot of time over the next few days dodging out of sight whenever he saw Gilderoy Lockhart coming down a corridor. His trips through the hallways soon turned into a strange sort of visual hot-potato, with Harry avoiding Lockhart just as determinedly as the little Gryffindor boy, Colin Creevey, was avoiding Harry. 

Harry tried several times to apologize to the first year boy, but every time Creevey saw him, he gulped fearfully and darted away. The skittish first year often had a small red-haired girl in tow. She glared at Harry with very watery brown eyes, like he had somehow betrayed her. It was baffling, and made Harry’s stomach feel funny. He knew he shouldn’t care about two dumb Gryffindor first years, but knowing that people hated him that much made Harry miserable. 

Hermione, too, was avoiding Harry, giving him nothing but disdainful scowls and the silent treatment anytime Harry tried to talk to her. He eventually gave up, being more concerned by the upcoming Quidditch try-outs than he was reconciling with Hermione Granger. He’d have time to do that afterward, but Quidditch was only a few days away. 

As the week went by, Harry became more and more nervous; Hedwig showed up every morning with school supplies for Harry, but come Wednesday, there was still no sign of his broom. Draco remained unconcerned, saying that as Harry had included the information that he needed it by Thursday on the order form, it would surely show up in time; in the meantime, he generously allowed Harry to practice flying a bit on his own Nimbus in the evenings. 

Harry had decided to get the same broom. His friend was right, it did have the best stats on the market, and Harry really enjoyed flying Draco’s. Harry had thought he’d liked flying last year, on the school brooms, but that was _nothing_ compared to flying on a Nimbus 2001. Harry swooped and dove so fast that it made his eyes water as he flew all over the wide lawns and crowded pitch. 

They were not the only Slytherins out there, and the Slytherins were not the only ones practicing; the rest of the houses would all eventually be holding Quidditch try-outs as well, and everyone was excited.

Finally Thursday morning came, and left Harry too anxious to even think about eating. His eyes never left the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall—today a light blue, with fluffy clouds; perfect flying weather—and he desperately watched the magical sky for Hedwig. 

Owls swooped in and out, dropping letters and packages to the students below them. Finally Harry spotted a familiar flash of white. He knocked Goyle’s pumpkin juice over when he stood up, he was so excited, but the only thing the owl had for him was _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Two_. His heart plummeted and he drooped over his porridge. Harry had never been less excited by magic, and could barely bestir himself to ruffle Hedwig’s feathers affectionately as thanks for the delivery. 

He didn’t move again until Draco elbowed him hard in the side. Harry looked up and saw, coming through the window, a long, thin package carried by six large screech owls. They soared down and dropped it right in front of him, knocking his porridge bowl over and sending the hot, uneaten mess spilling across the table. Theodore Nott jumped backwards out of the way just in time. 

Harry, smiling so hard his face hurt, tore the paper off to reveal the long-awaited broomstick. It was long, and sleek, with a smooth mahogany handle and bristles so fine they shivered in the air. It was the most beautiful thing that Harry had ever seen. 

“It’s here,” he yelled, “it’s here at last, look at it!”

“Very nice,” Draco said, smiling indulgently. He was, of course, familiar with the Nimbus 2001 and consequently unimpressed, but Harry didn’t care. This was _his_ broom, his very _first_ broom, and he was utterly in love. 

He spent the morning rambling on about its stats and style to anyone who would listen—mostly just Crabbe and Goyle, who really did make an excellent audience—and only barely left the Great Hall with enough time to run it down to the dungeons before classes started. Harry would rather have carried his Nimbus around with him all day, but he knew it would be safer in his dormitory. He had the feeling that most of the teachers might object, too, if he brought a broom to class with him. 

That didn’t mean he didn’t miss it, though. Harry found it utterly impossible to pay attention to a single thing his teachers said; his mind was too filled with thoughts of his brand new Nimbus. 

“Potter!” Snape snapped, jolting Harry out of a pleasant reverie of soaring through clouds to the sound of a cheering crowd. 

“Sorry, Professor!” Harry yelped, looking around wildly. 

Draco made eyebrows at the potion boiling in front of him, and Harry hurriedly stirred the gloopy mixture. 

“Counter-clockwise, Potter,” Snape said, “or is reading instructions beneath your celebrity status?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Harry winced, “I didn’t—I forgot.” He quickly changed directions, trying to ignore the hot flush creeping up his cheeks. 

“Celebrity?” Draco said, eyes wide. “Whatever do you mean, Professor? Potter? _He’s_ not famous. Not really. Surely you must be mistaking Potter for someone else...someone much more _gifted_ and _experienced_...maybe even a little _gilded_...someone who’s _published_...someone color-coordinated...now _that’s_ a celebrity.”

Several Slytherins laughed and the Gryffindors Thomas and Finnegan both snorted in spite of themselves. Even Weasley looked amused. Hermione shot them all a dirty look from across her own perfectly-simmering potion. Snape’s thin mouth twitched in something that might have been amusement. “Surely,” he said drily, and moved away to berate Longbottom for adding his beetle segments in the wrong order. 

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. “Quick,” he whispered to Draco, “what can I do to fix this?”

They spent the next several minutes doctoring Harry’s mishmash of a brew and by the time class was over, he managed to turn in something that might actually be passable, although only barely. Harry resolved to never again daydream in Potions Class, and when he muttered an apology to Snape on his way out the door, the dour Potions Master actually nodded civilly in response. 

Hermione Granger was less pleasant to Harry, walking behind him with a scowl. “Maybe if you had more respect for professors, you wouldn’t need someone to salvage your potions for you,” she said tartly. 

“We respect _competent_ professors just fine,” Draco sneered before Harry could say anything else, “like Professors Snape...Flitwick...McGonagall...even Sprout, I suppose...am I leaving anyone out?” he asked, blinking innocently at Harry.

Harry snorted, then instantly regretted it because Hermione snarled a very disgruntled _harrumph!_ and stormed up the stairs past them. The other Slytherins—and even a few Gryffindors—laughed, but Harry just sighed. At this rate, Hermione was never going to speak to him again. 

He didn’t spend a lot of time dwelling on Hermione Granger’s bad mood, though, because every second that passed brought the time for their try-outs closer and closer. By the time dinner came around, Harry was so nervous that he could barely bring himself to eat. Draco had gone even paler than usual and he didn’t even bother putting food on his plate to pretend to pick at, like Harry was. 

Harry forced himself to bolt a scoop of mashed potatoes and half a shepherd’s pie, because living with the Dursleys had taught him never to overlook a chance to eat, but he felt sick afterward and washed it all down with what felt like a gallon of pumpkin juice. 

He and Draco left the table quickly, heading down to change and retrieve Harry’s broom. Crabbe and Goyle stayed behind; neither one of them was planning to try out, and wouldn’t have left the dinner table so early for any reason. 

Draco and Harry walked down to the dungeons in silence, the both of them too nervous to speak. Harry’s stomach was turning somersaults. His cloak felt heavy and too warm, and it itched against the back of his neck. Harry barely even registered the sight of a red-haired Gryffindor ducking out of sight when he and Draco came around the corner on their way back up to the pitch; right now, he wouldn’t have broken stride even if she and Creevey had both burst into tears right in front of him. 

He had Quidditch to worry about, now. 

Harry and Draco were not by any means the only Slytherins gathered on the pitch. Most of the students there were older and, consequently, larger; Harry edged closer to Draco and tried not to miss the comforting bulk of Crabbe and Goyle at his side. The only other second year student out there was Daphne Greengrass, looking skittish and uncertain. Harry gave her an encouraging smile but she only stared at him blankly until he looked away again. 

Harry draped his too-warm cloak over the bleachers and fought the urge to throw up. Draco shifted back-and-forth, bouncing on his toes. Harry tried not to look at him, his butterfly-filled stomach sensitive enough already without his friend’s nervous fidgeting. 

Marcus Flint came striding down to the pitch at last, Peregrine Derrick and Lucian Bole shambling in his wake. Flint took one look at the gathered crowd and brusquely ordered away everyone who’d brought a borrowed school broom. Harry clutched his brand new Nimbus with sweaty hands and breathed a secret sigh of relief that it had come in time. 

“Okay, everyone here for Seeker, into the air,” Flint said. Harry mounted his broom hurriedly and joined the cluster of Slytherins arrowing clumsily for the skies. He dimly noticed Derrick and Bole head over towards the remaining hopefuls who were bold enough to risk seeking a different position, and heard the two Beaters reiterate Flint’s earlier warning about wasting time, a bit more menacingly than the way the captain had phrased it. There were only five or six people still brave enough to be on the ground, though; everyone else was up in the air, with Harry. 

It was hard to maneuver all crowded together like that, so Harry swooped off away from the group. He hung just close enough to hear Flint’s voice as he called instructions, and was consequently one of the first to put on speed and test out a dive when the captain gave them the order to go. 

Harry couldn’t help but let out a “whoop!” of excitement as he skimmed through the air, pushing his new broom and trying to find its limits. He pulled out of his dive inches from the ground and wondered if it had been his imagination, or if his toes had really brushed the grass. Harry’s heart was beating very hard in his chest and he couldn’t stop smiling. Even if Flint didn’t pick him for the team, he didn’t think he could possibly feel badly; Harry was _flying_ , on his very own broom no less, and he loved it. 

He was so busy reveling in the feeling of being airborne that he missed the arrival of Derrick and Bole to the sky, and barely ducked the first Bludger. The two Beaters soared around, whacking the heavy iron balls with violent delight, and sending the potential Seekers scattering. 

Daphne Greengrass soon fled to the ground, clutching her wrist. Pansy and Millicent ran out to help their friend off the pitch, and all three girls sent murderous glares up towards the two gleeful Beaters before stalking away. 

Daphne wasn’t the only person to retire in injury; several people sported bloody lips or noses as they quit the pitch, and several more limped away, wincing. Harry figured that Madame Pomfrey would be busy tonight, and wondered what she thought of Quidditch. 

He had so far escaped unscathed, though. A quick glance around revealed that Draco was likewise still flying, apparently unharmed. They exchanged sharp, nervous grins but had no time for anything more, because Flint pushed his potential Seekers through their paces very quickly. By the time the captain told the much decreased number of fliers to call it quits, Harry was sweaty and aching all over. 

He slouched off the field with Draco, the both of them carrying their brooms up to the castle with them. They could have left them in the broomshed, but Harry wasn’t ready to part with his new Nimbus yet, not even overnight. 

He wondered how long it would take Flint to figure out the team roster, and whether he would have these butterflies in his stomach the whole time he was waiting. 

Harry thought he’d done all right, but of course, he’d never played Quidditch, so he couldn’t be sure... He wished that he’d come up with some clever way to make Flint pay attention to him, the way Draco had. Harry had noticed the captain eying his friend very carefully while they were flying, no doubt thinking about brooms and benefactors. Harry could kick himself for not thinking to do _something;_ wasn’t Lockhart always going on about Harry’s celebrity? He could have used that somehow, couldn’t he, to have made Flint notice him...

“Good flying, Potter,” Draco said, breaking into Harry’s increasingly gloomy reverie. “You’re a natural.”

“Really?” Harry grinned. “Thanks!”

“Of course,” Draco continued quickly, “so was I, it’s just not as obvious any more because I’ve been on brooms all my life while you never were, outside of class last year, for however much _that_ counts, but I assure you, when I—”

“Why do you do that,” Harry interrupted, “brag so much?”

Draco looked affronted so Harry hurried to explain: “I mean, you’re already pretty much the coolest bloke at school, so why do you work so hard to remind us all the time?” he asked. “We’re not likely to forget, are we, so I don’t see why you have to point it out so much...it just seems kind of...” Harry shrugged awkwardly, uncertain of how to explain the uncomfortable feeling he got whenever Draco started boasting. “You know?”

Draco stared at him. “You think I’m the coolest...?” He shook his head, taken aback. “Well, I mean, I am of course,” he went on, mustering up his usual confident sneer. “I just didn’t expect you to recognize it.” He smirked. “I mean, you’re Harry Potter, you’re a _celebrity_...”

“Shut-up,” Harry groaned, “I hate Lockhart so much...”

Draco sniggered and teased him all the way up to the castle. 


	5. Unwelcome Conversations

Harry swore heavily under his breath—words picked up from Blaise Zabini, who had the most extensive vocabulary Harry had ever heard, even vaster than his Uncle Vernon’s—and he ran as fast as he dared to down the hallway.

Why had he even brought his cloak down to try-outs? He should have known that it would be too warm to wear it. He certainly should have remembered that he’d had it with him, and not left it lying forgotten in the stands afterward!

At least he had thought to grab his Invisibility Cloak on his way down to retrieve his everyday one. He didn’t want to risk getting caught out by Filch. Lockhart was unbearable enough ordinarily; Harry didn’t want to have to suck up to the arrogant windbag in order to earn back lost house points.

He fumbled with the cumbersome bundle of his balled-up cloak, almost dropping the loose fabric, and swore again. Then he froze, because he had heard a voice, and it was not his own. It wasn’t one voice, even, but two: they sounded vaguely familiar, even muffled as they were through the classroom door. Harry pulled his dad’s cloak tighter around himself and backed away into the shadows, even though he couldn’t be seen in any light.

Then he crept closer, because he wanted to hear what they were saying.

Harry gingerly eased the door open a crack and put his eye to it. He could just make out two tall, burly figures perched on desks. One of them held a bottle of something and the other was scribbling on a bit of parchment. Harry opened the door wider and saw that the latter was Marcus Flint, and he was scowling heavily.

“I just don’t see how it’s a question,” said the boy with the bottle, taking a swig.

“Of course there’s a question,” Flint growled, “or I wouldn’t have asked it.”

“Marcus, he said Nimbus 2001s!” In his excitement Flint’s companion sat up, bringing his face into Harry’s line of sight: It was Graham Montague, his dark eyes glittering with gleeful avarice. “You heard him same as me, right?” he asked Flint. “You’ve seen the specs for those things, haven’t you?”

“Sure, of course I have,” Flint replied gruffly, “but how do we know he’ll even deliver? It’s not like he promised anything—not like his _dad_ promised anything...”

“He insinuated pretty bloody heavily.”

“Not the same.”

“No, but... _Nimbus 2001s_...wouldn’t that be worth the risk?” Montague asked. He grinned. “Can you even imagine, the whole team on brooms like that? Merlin, that would be worth it even if the kid flew like a brick, and he doesn’t!”

“Yeah, I know, but you saw Potter—”

“So? He wasn’t that much better than Malfoy, who cares?”

“He was ENOUGH better,” Flint insisted.

“If we’re all on brooms like that, it won’t matter!”

“Maybe, but everyone else saw Potter, too,” Flint said slowly. “If I pick Malfoy instead, everyone will know it was fixed...”

“Who cares?” Montague snorted. “We’ll still win.”

“Yeah...I guess you’re right about that...”

Harry backed away quietly, swallowing hard. His stomach roiled: a seething mixture of glee, guilt, and disgust.

He had been the best flier out there...they were thinking of making him Seeker...

But Draco’s stunt about the Nimbuses seemed to have worked even better than he’d planned; not just getting him noticed, but actually making the captain think about picking his team according to bribes rather than skill...

But he was Harry’s best friend. Harry should be happy for him if he made it on to the team, no matter why...

But if Harry _deserved_ to be on the team, rather than Draco...

But he was his _best friend_...

Harry turned and ran.

 

Harry was very quiet the rest of the night, finally retiring early because he could not stand to sit there with Draco and not say anything while his friend speculated about the team line-up, bragging to Crabbe and Goyle about how well his try-outs—and Harry’s—had gone.

Despite going to bed so early, Harry was still awake an hour later when Draco and the others came down. He kept his eyes tightly closed and pretended to be asleep, listening as they stumbled around, clumsy in their attempt to be quiet and not wake him. Eventually the dormitory fell silent save for the slow, even breathing of boys in slumber.

Well after midnight, Harry finally joined them.

“Wake up!” Someone was shaking Harry. He groaned and rolled over. “Come on, Potter, get up! Flint said the results would be up by morning, let’s go see who made the team!”

Harry dragged himself out of bed and trudged up the stairs after Draco. His feet felt like they weighed tons.

When he reached the common room, Draco was already over by the notice board. He was standing quite still. Crabbe and Goyle edged away from him, exchanging nervous glances behind the shorter boy’s back.

When Harry approached, Draco spun on his heel and stormed out through the secret door. Goyle shot Harry a wincing, almost apologetic look; Crabbe gave him an uncertain smile. Then they both hurried after Draco.

Harry walked to the notice board very slowly.

He scanned down the list of players:

_Captain: Marcus Flint – Chaser  
Adrian Pucey – Chaser  
Graham Montague – Chaser_ _  
Peregrin Derrick – Beater  
Lucian Bole – Beater  
Miles Bletchely – Keeper_  
And _Seeker..._ Seeker was listed as _Harry Potter_.

Harry’s jaw slowly dropped open. He only realized that he was staring when Daphne Greengrass brushed past him.

“Move along, Potter,” she said grumpily. “Just because you’re Flint and Lockhart’s favorite star doesn’t mean the rest of us will put up with you gawking like some dumb Muggle in the middle of the doorway.”

Harry was too dazed to point out that he was hardly in the middle of the door, and that if she hadn’t detoured to read the Quidditch line-up he wouldn’t have been in her way at all.

He wandered up to breakfast slowly, still unable to wrap his head around the try-out results. When Harry reached the Slytherin table, Draco suddenly stood up, as if he’d forgotten something important, and stalked away.

Harry hardly noticed. He ate his breakfast without tasting anything; accepted awkward, tentative congratulations from Crabbe and Goyle with a vague nod; and smiled woodenly at Pansy Parkinson when she flitted over to gush about his stellar flying yesterday.

After breakfast Harry numbly followed the rest of his housemates to class, moving like he had been Confunded. Everything was vague and hazy and Harry didn’t take a single note or succeed at casting a single spell all day. Friday passed in a slow daze, and Harry didn’t even notice that none of his friends tried to talk to him. He wouldn’t have heard them if they had; his brain had wandered out onto the Quidditch pitch, and it refused to come back in.

When Flint came by that evening to tell Harry that their first practice would be early the next morning, and he should get some sleep, Harry nodded mechanically and headed straight to bed. He lay there woodenly, staring at the bedcurtains without seeing them, until he finally fell asleep.

He woke the next morning with butterflies in his throat. Harry pulled on his brand new green robes and stumbled to the breakfast table. He sat there staring at a plate full of eggs, sausages, and potatoes, and wondered why he had thought he’d be able to eat. When Flint came by to growl at him about wasting time, Harry nearly choked on his pumpkin juice.

“Sorry!” he gasped, and ran down to the dungeons to grab his broom. He cursed himself for not leaving it in the broomshed like the rest of the team, and vowed to do so from now on.

Harry waved distractedly to Draco and sprinted outside. He arrived red-faced and out-of-breath to find the other players already waiting for him. Most of the team greeted him cordially enough, but Montague just scowled. Flint grunted gruffly and led the way to the pitch.

The last vestiges of morning mist were just fading when the Slytherins walked onto the field. Several people were already out there, despite the early hour: the Gryffindor Quidditch team zoomed through the air, their red robes flapping. One of the players shot suddenly for the ground, the rest of his team following at a less reckless pace.

Oliver Wood, the captain of the Gryffindor team, walked towards Harry and his new teammates. His face was red and he was scowling angrily. “Flint!” he bellowed. “This is our practice time! We got up specially! You can clear off now!”

Flint was a little taller than his Gryffindor counterpart, and he smirked as he looked down at him. “Plenty of room for all of us, Wood,” he said.

The Gryffindor team clustered behind their captain, all of them scowling. One of the Weasley twins cracked his knuckles and the other twirled his Beater’s bat threateningly. Bole slapped his own bat back and forth between his palms but Derrick was too busy exchanging glares with the Gryffindor Chasers to posture with his fellow Beater.

Pucey and Bletchley had stepped in front of Harry, as if to protect him. The both of them were so tall and burly that Harry could barely peer around them to watch the brewing confrontation. He doubted that any of the Gryffindors had yet realized he was there.

“But I booked the field!” Wood was saying, actually spitting a little bit, he was so mad. “I booked it!”

“Ah,” said Flint. “But I’ve got a specially signed note here from Professor Snape. _‘I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practice today on the Quidditch field owing to the need to train their new Seeker.’_ ”

Harry swallowed hard, realizing that that meant _him_. He thought it was nice of Snape to care; Harry hadn’t realized that their Potions Master was much of a Quidditch fan.

“You’ve got a new Seeker?” said Wood, distracted. “Where?”

Harry edged around Bletchley and smiled nervously. “Er,” he said, “hello.”

“Harry Potter,” said one of the Weasley twins with distaste, “of course it is.”

“Nothing to say, Potter?” the other twin asked. Both Gryffindor Beaters belligerently stepped forward.

“Er, no,” said Harry, shuffling a bit closer to his teammates. Last year the Weasley twins had been told that Harry was saying unkind things about their mother. He hadn’t said any such things, of course, but he had been unable to convince the Weasleys of his innocence, and they had consequently taken even more of a dislike to him than was customary between Gryffindors and Slytherins. Harry certainly didn’t want to antagonize them further.

Flint stepped in front of Harry, glaring at the Weasleys. “Well there you go,” he said. “We need the pitch, so you lot might as well clear off.”

“The hell we will,” Wood replied immediately, “I booked it!”

“And Professor Snape’s overruled that booking,” Flint said smoothly. “If you want to go appeal to him...”

“This is rubbish!” Wood yelled.

“You’re not the only one with a new Seeker, anyway,” one of the Gryffindor girls snapped. Harry thought he remembered that her name was Johnson, but then again it might have been Spinnet.

Montague snickered. “Oh yeah?” he said. “Replaced that rubbish idiot you had last year—what was his name—”

“Yes we have,” said a third year boy whom Harry didn’t recognize, “with me.” He swaggered forward, pushing his way between two of the girls. “Cormac McLaggen.” He grinned at Harry and held out his hand. “Good to meet the people I’ll be playing against later. I don’t expect to see much of you during matches, after all, what with how you’ll always be flying behind me.”

Harry scowled. “Don’t be too confident of that,” he said shortly. He didn’t shake the hand.

McLaggen laughed. He looked the way Harry imagined a Quidditch player ought to: tall and handsome and very athletic. He was large for a third year, standing taller than the Gryffindor Chasers, although he wasn’t as burly as Wood.

He made Harry feel very short, and very scrawny, and very untidy. He grumpily tried to flatten his fringe.

“Well, if your Seeker’s so good already,” Flint said slyly, “I suppose you’ve no need to practice. Come on, Potter, let’s get in the air.” He put his hand on Harry’s shoulder and steered him deeper onto the pitch.

“Just a minute!” Wood snapped, his face very red now. “You have no right to do this!”

“Of course I do,” Flint said, and waved Professor Snape’s note in front of the Gryffindors. “I got _permission_ ,” he said smugly. “Of course, you’re welcome to come and fly _with_ us, if you really want to,” Flint offered. His smile was not nearly as generous as his words.

“No,” Wood said shortly. “No way.” He scowled at Flint, the knuckles around his broom very white.

“Suit yourself,” Flint said. He shrugged and turned away from the Gryffindors, tugging Harry along with him. The rest of the Slytherins fell in behind, most of them shooting smug grins and rude gestures over their shoulders.

One of the Weasleys snarled and the whole lot of them grumbled together mutinously, but the Slytherins kept walking so Harry walked with them. His heart had skipped back up into his throat and as he mounted his broom he couldn’t restrain a bubbling laugh of elation. He wasn’t just flying, he was _training_. For _Quidditch_. It was amazing.

Harry couldn’t remember ever being happier.

 

He couldn’t remember being tireder, either. By the time Flint finally called an end to practice and they all staggered off their brooms, panting and sweating, Harry was so ravenous he was nearly ready to eat his Nimbus.

He didn’t, of course, but rather tucked it securely into the broomshed like his teammates did with their brooms. Harry gave his a last fond pat, then trudged off to clean up and change.

“Good flying, Potter,” said Pucey. Bletchley nodded. “Yeah, good job,” he said.

Harry grinned at his teammates. “Thanks,” he said, but before he could say anything else Montague shouldered past, nearly knocking Harry off his feet.

Bletchley stared after his teammate. “Blimey,” said the burly Slytherin Keeper, easily pulling Harry upright with one hand, “what’s his problem?”

“You didn’t hear?” Pucey asked.

“Hear what?” Bletchley said.

“Tell you later,” Pucey said quickly, with a sidelong glance at Harry.

Harry grimaced and looked down at his feet. He’d get everyone Nimbuses if he could, but he’d barely managed to order his own. And besides, it was one thing to have one’s father donate brooms to your team; if Harry did the same, he knew he’d just look like he was showing off.

He fell back under the pretense of retying his trainer, allowing his teammates to draw ahead so that they could talk about him privately. Harry sighed, then shook his head fiercely. He was the Slytherin Seeker, and he’d just had his first Quidditch practice. He wasn’t going to let anything ruin his good mood.

Head held high, Harry followed his teammates into the Great Hall for lunch.

The Slytherins had practiced so long that nearly everyone else had finished eating already. By the time the tired team trooped in, the four long lunch tables were only sparsely populated by the last stragglers. Harry spotted Crabbe and Goyle, but didn’t see anyone else he knew at the Slytherin table. He did, however, see Hermione Granger sitting alone amongst the Gryffindors, her half-empty plate apparently forgotten, and her nose buried deep in a book.

Harry hesitated, debating.

Then he turned fiercely on his heel and, mind made up, walked over to the Gryffindor table. He plopped down next to Hermione, who looked up from her book with a start. Before she could protest, Harry launched into speech:

“All right,” said Harry, “I’m sorry about what happened with your housemates, and I’m sorry about what Draco said, but _I_ didn’t say it, and I’ve been trying to apologize all week but they keep running away from me. So please stop being mad at me, because I didn’t do anything!”

“Well, I—you—well!” she stammered, flustered. “You didn’t seem to object at the time!”

“You didn’t give me a chance to,” Harry retorted. “You just got mad and stormed off.”

“Well if you’re going to hang around with people like _that_ ,” Hermione said tartly, “you can’t get upset when other people assume you’re, well, the same sort of person.”

“People like _what?_ ” said Harry.

“Mean people,” Hermione said simply, “bullies.”

“Draco’s not a bully!” Harry protested automatically. He knew bullies, and Draco was _nothing_ like Dudley. 

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“Well, I mean—he can be a little mean, sometimes, I guess...but he’s _not_ a _bully_ ,” Harry insisted. “He just, you know, sometimes he says stuff that...well it’s maybe not as funny as...nobody’s perfect,” he muttered, squirming. “But he’s, you know, he’s my friend, okay?”

“Great friend,” said Hermione sarcastically.

“Well at least I have friends!” Harry said harshly. “You haven’t even got any, so maybe you shouldn’t judge people so quickly.”

“I have friends!” said Hermione. Her cheeks went pink.

“Really,” sneered Harry.

“Yes!” she retorted. “I—yes. There’s Neville and Ron, we—”

“Weasley?” Harry interrupted. “You’re friends with _Weasley?_ ”

“Yes,” Hermione said shortly.

“Well...I don’t see them around now,” said Harry, making an exaggerated show of peering around the Great Hall for the absent Gryffindors.

Hermione scowled. “Well, maybe we don’t hang out together all the time,” she snapped, “but that doesn’t mean we aren’t, you know...friends.”

Harry shook his head. “How on _earth_ are you suddenly friends with _Ron Weasley?_ I thought you hated him.”

“Well, I...I did what you suggested, actually,” Hermione explained. She seemed unable to meet Harry’s eye. “I gave him a chance.”

“You gave him a chance,” Harry repeated blankly.

Hermione nodded, going even pinker. “Well, yes. Neville—he comes with me to the library sometimes, like—like you and I did, for a little bit last year, you know, to work on homework together...he needs help, sometimes, with a few classes and, and when we were all studying so hard for our exams last year, well, he brought Ron along, because he was having some trouble with Transfiguration, and I...well, and I’m really smart,” Hermione said, shrugging modestly, “and Neville thought I could help.”

Harry nodded. “So Weasley’s only your _friend_ when he wants help on his _schoolwork_ ,” he observed nastily.

“It’s not like that at all!” Hermione exclaimed, gone bright red now.

“Uh-huh,” said Harry.

“It isn’t,” she insisted. “And anyway, if your friends are so great, where are _they?_ ”

“Well, I was out at practice really late,” said Harry, suddenly on the defensive. “Draco will have done eating by now I guess, but Greg and Vince are right over there.”

“And why aren’t you sitting with them, then?” Hermione asked.

“Because I wanted to apologize to you,” Harry snapped, “and you haven’t been letting me.”

“And you’ve done a marvelous job of it, too,” Hermione said shortly.

“Well you aren’t making it very easy!” Harry said.

“Oh I’m so sorry it’s not _easy_ enough for you,” said Hermione. “I didn’t realize that _your_ apology was _my_ responsibility.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Harry said. “I’m just trying, all right? You don’t have to be so difficult about it!”

“Well apparently I do!” said Hermione. She scowled at him and Harry glared back. They sat in a huffy silence, Harry wishing very much that Draco was still in the Great Hall. He might have seen Harry’s distress, and could have come over and rescued him without too much pain to Harry’s dignity. With the last bits of their lunch still in front of them, a whole deck of Exploding Snap could have gone off under Crabbe and Goyle without either of them noticing.

If Harry was going to talk his way out of this, he was going to have to do it by himself. Harry was sure that he was going to put his foot in it, but he opened his mouth to try anyway.

He never got the chance.

“Well, well, well!” a cheerful, booming voice suddenly intruded. “My two favorite students! How exciting to see the both of you so chummy!”

Harry looked up, horrified, to see the bright, smiling face of Gilderoy Lockhart beaming down at him. Hermione gave a startled little “oh!” and turned pink. Her face matched Lockhart’s robes.

“Hello, Professor,” Harry said, forcing his grimace into a smile. “Er. How are you today?”

“Brilliant, Harry, just brilliant.” Lockhart grinned at him. He didn’t seem to ever do anything else. “And Hermione! Still studying, I see!” Lockhart chuckled. “That’s the spirit, Miss Granger! Keep at it, and one day, you’ll be just as smart as me!”

Harry managed to strangle his snort of disbelief into something noncommittal, but Hermione smiled at Lockhart like he’d just given her the biggest compliment of her life. She had an uncharacteristically simple smile on her face. It made Harry want to gag.

“Now Harry,” Lockhart said, turning back to the boy before he could slip away, “if you have a moment, I’d like a word with you. Don’t worry Miss Granger, I’ll give him back soon.” He winked. “I wouldn’t want to interfere with the burgeoning blossoms of friendship—or maybe something a little bit more, eh?” he asked slyly, nudging Harry in the ribs.

Hermione made a strangled sound of her own. The expression on her face was unreadable, but very frightening.

Harry’s protests were lost as Lockhart steered him out the door.

“Now, Harry,” said Lockhart. He shook his head, but kept beaming. “Harry, Harry, Harry...what were you thinking, Harry?”

“Er...about what, professor?” Harry asked nervously.

“Trying out for Seeker, of course! A bold move, Harry, but a risky one! Very dangerous position, Seeker.” Lockhart leaned in close to whisper conspiratorially, “I played it myself, you know. I was asked to try out for the National Squad, but I decided to devote my life the eradication of the Dark Forces instead—much more important, I felt, but believe me Harry, I too have heard the broomstick’s siren call!”

“Oh,” said Harry, “really?”

“And now here you are—oh, I can see what’s happening. I blame myself!”

“Oh,” said Harry, “do you?”

Lockhart patted Harry on the shoulder. “My dear boy, it’s obvious! Here you are, a strapping young lad, fresh with dreams and ambitions, and I’ve been encouraging you with no thought to your health and safety! All those stories of mine—Harry, you have to remember, I am a fully grown and accomplished wizard! Yes, yes, you have a bit of celebrity yourself—that whole thing with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—but Harry, you mustn’t let that go to your head.”

“Oh,” said Harry, “musn’t I?”

“No!” Lockhart exclaimed. “Harry, playing Seeker—why, you could be seriously hurt, it happens all the time. And I’d feel really just awful knowing that you only put yourself in such a perilous position because of me!”

“Oh,” said Harry, “did I?”

“Of course, dear boy, of course, I can see it quite plainly. Why here you are, only twelve and already you’ve been involved in one tiny little scuffle against Dark Magic, and now I come along—it’s only natural you would want to follow in my footsteps, and how better to emulate me than by beginning to travel the same path I did? First Seeker, then the next thing you know, there’ll be an Order of Merlin and Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile!” As if to underscore his point, Lockhart flashed a particularly bright grin at Harry. He could have counted every one of the wizard’s white teeth.

“Now Harry, I understand,” Lockhart continued. “You can’t back out of it now, of course not! But just think, my boy, use your head! You have to be careful, Harry, I won’t always be around to save you, you know.”

“Oh,” said Harry, “I know.”

Lockhart shook his head. He was still grinning. “Well, there’s a brave boy! Just remember what I said, Harry! Look before you leap, and all that, and think twice before you get in over your head!”

Harry nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “all right.”

Lockhart patted his shoulder again and walked away, beaming cheerfully.

Harry made a face, yanked his green robes back into place, and turned back the way he had come. When Harry looked back into the Great Hall, the Gryffindor table was empty.

He looked across the room to where the Slytherins sat. Crabbe and Goyle were gone, too. Harry sighed and walked over to join the rest of the Slytherin team for a very late lunch.

 

When Harry at last made it down to his common room to clean up, he was still too sulky to be in the mood to chat with his friends. He had expected them to want him to tell them all about Quidditch practice, and was relieved when no one brought up the subject. In fact, Draco seemed to feel no more talkative than Harry, and barely acknowledged his presence. Harry flopped down on a long couch and tried to force himself to focus on his Herbology essay.

It was difficult going, and thoughts of Lockhart and Hermione and flying and his new teammates kept intruding. Harry chewed on his quill and scowled at his empty parchment.

He couldn’t understand why no one was pestering him to talk about practice.

Harry yawned widely and sneaked a glance at his friends. Draco was staring fixedly at his Potions book. He sat so stiffly, he might have been petrified. Crabbe and Goyle were hunched next to each other at one of the small side tables. It looked absurdly tiny with the two burly boys dwarfing it. They were muttering together, their own revision abandoned, and they kept stealing furtive glances at Harry and Draco.

Harry blotted an ink spot on his otherwise blank parchment and casually mentioned how nice the weather was today. No one took the cue and suggested that they move their work outside. Harry sighed and doodled a snitch in the margin of his still-unwritten essay. He turned around on the couch so that he was lying on his stomach, the parchment just below his nose, but couldn’t get comfortable there, either.

At last Harry gave up and tossed his quill down. “It’s too nice out for homework,” he complained. Harry shoved his new school supplies back into his bag. “I’m heading outside. Anyone want to come?”

The only response from Draco was chilly silence; the other two glanced at their pale leader for a cue, then shook their heads quickly. Harry shrugged. “Suit yourselves,” he muttered, and stomped out through the stone wall.

He would go down to Hagrid’s, he decided. He hadn’t gotten to really speak to the big groundskeeper since last year, and between Hagrid’s cheer and his boisterous boarhound, Fang, Harry knew his spirits would be quickly lifted.

Harry found himself whistling as he ambled down the lawns, and grinned for no real reason. He couldn’t wait to get back up in the air. Maybe Draco would be interested in some flying after dinner. Now that they both had their own Nimbuses, Harry was sure it would be a lot more fun. They wouldn’t have to take turns anymore. They could race, or play some one-on-one, or just flit around together.

There really was no feeling in the world like flying.

Harry finally got to gush about Quidditch practice. Hagrid was no expert on the game, but he liked watching it, and was perfectly delighted to let Harry ramble on about his new team, and how excited he was for their first match.

“I’m too big fer a broom m’self, Harry,” Hagrid said, and Harry nodded his understanding quickly. He tried hard not to laugh at picturing the burly Hagrid perched atop a skinny Nimbus.

Hagrid promised to come and watch when Slytherin played, and Harry had such a good time talking with his largest friend that he completely lost track of time. It wasn’t until dinner had come and gone unnoticed and the sun went down that Harry realized he had stayed all afternoon and well into the evening.

He sprinted back up to the castle, his pockets heavy with Hagrid’s inedible rock cakes, and barely made it through the large double doors before curfew.

Harry clattered down the stairs to the dungeon, hoping that he wouldn’t run into Filch on his way. He didn’t think that he was out of bounds just yet, but with Filch, it was always best not to cut it too fine. The cantankerous caretaker was not above stopping a student for a lecture that lasted long enough to break curfew, and then writing them up for being out late. Daphne and Pansy had lost ten points that way just the day before. Harry suspected that they had been skulking outside Lockhart’s office in hopes of seeing their new favorite professor, and thus could feel no sympathy for their punishment.

Harry heard someone speaking as he came down the last set of steps and he wished that he had brought his Invisibility Cloak with him. Harry could have thrown that over his head and slipped right past Filch with the caretaker none the wiser.

He crouched down and leaned carefully around the corner, scanning the bare stones for a swishing tail and burning eyes. Mrs. Norris, Filch’s foul-tempered cat, was usually the first sign of danger. If he could spot her, before she saw him... Harry edged forward, then breathed a sigh of relief. There were two sets of legs there, but one ended in fancy black shoes and the other with a pair of grubby trainers, not the heavy boots Filch clomped around in.

Scanning upwards revealed the shiny shoes to belong to Draco, oddly alone, and the trainers to be those of the little red-headed Gryffindor girl who seemed to spend so much time glaring at Harry. Draco was standing in the middle of the corridor, arms crossed, like he was blocking her way. He was smirking dreadfully. The girl stood hunch-shouldered in front of him, scowling up at the taller boy. She was clutching the book in her arms as if it were some kind of life-preserver.

“You’re a little too nosy for your own good, is all I’m saying,” Draco taunted the Gryffindor. “What are you doing, skulking down here at this hour?” He quirked an eyebrow. “Looking for loose change, maybe?”

“I wouldn’t take money from Slytherins if you handed it to me with bows on,” the Weasley girl replied, but her freckled face flushed shamefully. “I don’t want to get my hands dirty.”

“I’m not sure I believe you, Weasley,” Draco drawled. “I’ll bet if I dropped a trail of knuts, you’d scramble off wherever they led.” He paused, and made a big show of checking his pockets. “But, oh, I don’t seem to have anything that small on me,” he said, and pulled a face of scornfully-false pity. “Have you ever even seen a Galleon, Weasley?”

The girl flinched angrily, and her little hands curled into fists against the back cover of her book. “I’ve seen more Galleons than you’ve seen decent wizards,” she retorted shortly.

Draco laughed at her. “Maybe you’d just prefer Muggle money, like your idiot father,” he sneered. “Honestly, if he likes Muggles so much, why doesn’t he just marry one?” Draco asked, his pointed face scrunched up in disgust. “Of course, he’d have to get rid of his fat cow of a wife first; maybe if he didn’t have to feed her so much, he could afford decent robes for his filthy litter.” He flicked dismissive fingers at the girl’s well-tended but obviously hand-me-down clothing.

She flushed, and scowled horribly. “Are you looking for a fight, Malfoy?” the little girl asked boldly. “If you want to follow your daddy’s example, I’ll be more than happy to give you a black eye to match his!” Weasley snapped. She bounced up onto her tiptoes, as if trying to look more threatening.

Draco just laughed, although his pale face darkened slightly. “It seems to me you should be more worried about not following _your_ father’s example,” he spat at her. “Unless of course you’re just as big a Muggle-lover as he is. Maybe we should find you some ounces, or whatever it is they use for money, so you can buy yourself decent things instead of this rubbish.” He reached for the worn book in her hands, and the girl stumbled backwards.

“They use pounds,” Harry said, stepping around the corner. Both of them turned to look, startled by Harry’s sudden appearance. Draco shoved his hands into his pockets, and the girl wrapped her arms even tighter around her book. Standing closer now, Harry could see that underneath her frown, the Weasley girl looked like she was fighting back tears.

His stomach gave a little wobble, and he thought about what Hermione had said, even though he knew she was wrong.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked.

Draco blinked at Harry, then sniffed, and seemed to decide that he would deign to speak after all. “Found this bit of Gryffindor filth poking around down here,” Draco said coolly, indicating the girl with a scornful jerk of his chin. “Asked her what she thought she was doing wandering our hallways, this close to curfew, and she got shirty with me.” He smirked. “Not that I expected manners from a Weasley, of course,” Draco added, “but little lion cubs do have to be careful, sneaking around down in our dungeons so late. They could get bit.”

“I’d bite you,” the small Weasley girl snapped, “only I’m afraid I might catch something.”

“You should be so lucky, you pathetic little blood traitor,” Draco snarled, “a bit of _proper_ wizarding blood-pride would—”

Before he could finish whatever he was about to say, Harry interrupted quickly, saying, “we should probably all get back to our common rooms before Filch catches us.”

“I’m half-tempted to get Filch myself,” Draco said, “tell him we caught an interloper down here out of bounds. What do you think of that?” He smiled at Weasley, who glared back silently. With Harry now standing beside his friend, she seemed too intimidated to say anything more.

“I think you should just lay off,” Harry quietly told Draco. “She probably just got lost. Remember our first week here?”

Draco stared slack-jawed at Harry, then scowled. “I remember realizing you were a back-stabber and a jerk,” he snapped, “but I thought I’d been wrong. Guess not!” He spun on his heel and stormed off.

Harry gaped after him, then looked instinctively at Weasley, hoping that she would have an explanation for why Draco had overreacted. The Gryffindor girl just blushed crimson and looked down at her worn shoes. “Thanks,” she muttered, and then ran away quickly down the corridor.

Harry sighed, and rolled his eyes, and followed Draco into their common room.

He didn’t catch up with his friend until Draco was halfway down the stairs to the dormitory. Harry grabbed the pale boy’s arm, forcing him to stop and turn around. “What’s your problem?” he demanded.

“You are,” Draco sneered back. “You’re a double-crossing cheat, and I can’t believe I thought you were my friend.”

“I am your friend!” Harry protested. “I just—jeez, Draco, I just didn’t want to see you make the girl cry, okay? I didn’t know it was such a big deal.”

“The Weasley brat? You think this is about that?” Draco asked scornfully.

“Well...I did. Until you said that...”

“This is about Quidditch, you idiot. Quidditch, and everything else!”

“I don’t understand,” Harry said, truthfully.

“I help you get your broom, I make sure it’s the best, I let you practice on mine, help you train, do everything I can to make you a decent flier—and then you go and steal my slot on the team!”

“But—but that’s what...I mean...I didn’t do it on purpose, Draco, the captain just picked—”

“Picked you, over me,” Draco snapped. “After everything I did to help you! It’s not fair.”

“I...I didn’t...”

“And what am I supposed to tell father, huh?” Draco continued, “what do you think he’ll say? ‘Oh, good job, Draco, you really worked hard to get your _friend_ onto the team, instead of you. Well done, that was worth the effort.’” His sneer turned sullen. “First the Mudblood outscores me, now my best friend beats me out for Seeker—am I good enough at _anything?_ ” he asked angrily.

“Draco, hey, calm down. It isn’t like that—”

But Draco wasn’t listening. “Of course, I don’t know what else I expected, with a friend so rubbish he won’t even write to me all summer. Of course he wasn’t going to care.”

“I told you,” Harry said, “that wasn’t my fault, there was this House—”

“I don’t care, Potter!” Draco interrupted. “Just leave me alone!”

He stormed down the steps to the dormitory and slammed the door behind him. After a moment of stunned shock, Harry wrenched it back open and followed, but Draco’s curtains were already shut tight. Blaise Zabini smirked superciliously at Harry from his languid perch on the bed by the far wall. Crabbe and Goyle just looked wide-eyed and helpless, and glanced aside when Harry looked at them.

Harry scowled at Blaise, who chuckled. Harry drew his wand and flicked a spell at the smug boy. Blaise’s curtains slammed shut around him. Harry ignored the indignant squawk from Zabini, rummaged in his school bag for the Cloak, then stormed back out of the room.

The sound of the door slamming behind him was very satisfying.

 

Harry wandered the hallways in the dark for several hours. He was too upset even to worry that Dumbledore might catch him, and he almost hoped that Mrs. Norris would show up so that he could give her a good kick. The only thing he saw was the Bloody Baron, drifting noiselessly through the walls; if the Baron was aware of Harry, he paid the boy no more attention than Harry gave to the silvery ghost.

A horrible, off-key warbling finally shook Harry from his angry daze. Harry looked around and realized that he was right outside Lockhart’s office, and that the awful noise was the egotistical wizard singing. Terror ran through Harry. The last thing he wanted was to be caught by Lockhart, and forced to endure another conversation about Harry’s ambitions and the professor’s accomplishments.

Completely forgetting that he was safe under his Invisibility Cloak, Harry climbed into the nearest alcove to hide. He scrunched back into the dark corner, half-obscured behind a heavy iron knight. Harry settled down to wait until the singing abated, and Lockhart turned in for the night. He wasn’t going anywhere until it was safe, and the obnoxious professor was far, far away.

Harry didn’t realize that he had fallen asleep until he jerked awake some time later. He had heard a voice, a voice to chill the bone marrow, a voice of breath-taking, ice-cold venom.

“ _Come...come to me....Let me rip you....Let me tear you....Let me kill you...”_

Harry looked around, but the darkened corridor was deserted. A dim light from under Lockhart’s door showed that the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was still awake, but there was no noise from his office—and that voice had definitely not been Lockhart’s.

Shivering slightly, Harry climbed out of his hidey-hole. He was careful to keep the Invisibility Cloak pulled tight around him. Harry looked around again, but he was all alone. There was no one there to have spoken. Harry shuddered, and decided that it was well past time to go to bed and get some proper sleep.

Somehow, though, it didn’t feel like he’d been dreaming.


	6. Mrs. Norris

With the sun up and everything back to normal, strange voices in dark hallways didn’t seem so frightening. Harry was willing to chalk the whole thing up to a nightmare (probably caused by Lockhart’s singing) and forget about it. Besides, he had more important things to worry about, because everything was _not_ back to normal.

Draco wasn’t talking to him at all, and consequently neither were Goyle or Crabbe. Zabini had been chilly to Harry since last Christmas, and Nott never talked much anyway, so that left Harry quite on his own. It didn’t help that Hermione was still crossly avoiding him and, on top of that, the Slytherin girls had all decided to sympathize with Daphne Greengrass, who was miffed that Harry had beaten her out for Seeker.

It was beginning to look like making the Quidditch team was the worst thing that had ever happened to Harry.

After several weeks of this dreary silence (punctuated by Lockhart’s annoying cheer) Harry was ready to tear his own hair out. Fun as flying was, and excited as he was to have made the team, it wasn’t worth loosing all his friends.

October arrived, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the castle, and doing nothing to help Harry’s mood. Madame Pomfrey, the nurse, was kept busy by a sudden spate of colds among the staff and students. Her Pepperup potion worked instantly, though it left the drinker smoking at the ears for several hours afterward. Harry wondered if it might cheer him up, even though he wasn’t sick, but decided that the last thing he needed was to look like he’d accidentally lit his head on fire. He was getting enough flak for his appearance, every time he trudged into the common room in a puddle of mud.

Raindrops the size of bullets thundered on the castle windows for days on end; the lake rose, the flower beds turned into muddy streams, and Hagrid’s pumpkins swelled to the size of garden sheds, but none of that deterred Marcus Flint from holding Quidditch practice. As the team’s only Seeker, Harry had to be there every time, even though it was all but impossible to spot the tiny snitch in such a deluge. All he really accomplished, beyond learning how to stay on a broom no matter how waterlogged he got, was to take on a regular resemblance to a drowned rat. And no matter how exhausted or pathetic Harry looked, his friends’ sympathies never seemed to be kindled; not even seeing the hardship that practice could be was enough to lighten their outrage that Harry had been selected for Seeker instead of one of them.

Unfortunately, Draco’s determination not to speak to Harry did not seem to extend to not talking _about_ Harry. He had an endless supply of unkind observations about water, mud, and Harry’s affinity for both. Draco offered this commentary up to an appreciative audience, which included not just the ever-present Crabbe and Goyle, but often Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson as well. Harry found these quips less and less entertaining as the weeks wore on, and his patience with being wet, cold, and mud-splattered wore thinner and thinner.

It was bad enough not having Draco as a friend anymore; having him as something like an enemy was absolutely unbearable. Harry had to do something to fix this, or he might as well go back to Privet Drive and be miserable there instead.

Harry finally managed to corner Draco one wet Tuesday morning after breakfast. He had spent several minutes in the library the day before looking up spells, and had settled on a jinx that would make Draco’s glass of pumpkin juice explode when he picked it up. (Harry figured that if he got caught, that was the kind of prank he could get away with, and since Draco wasn’t talking to him anyway, it wouldn’t matter if he got mad.)

He did get mad, but not at Harry, because no one saw him cast the spell. Draco hurried off, swearing mightily, to go and change into dry robes before class. Just as Harry had hoped, Crabbe and Goyle stayed behind to finish eating. Harry sneaked out of the Great Hall and followed his friend down to the dungeons, catching up to Draco as he was coming back up the dormitory steps.

Draco moved to brush past him but Harry stopped, blocking the narrow hallway. Draco scowled. “Shove off, Potter,” he ordered crossly.

“No,” said Harry. He took a deep breath as Draco’s eyes widened in indignation and his hand reached for his wand. “Draco, I’ll quit the team,” Harry said quickly.

Draco stopped, his hand falling limp and empty to his side. “What?” he said.

“If it means that much to you,” Harry offered, “I’ll quit, and you can be Seeker. I just want us to be friends again.”

Draco stared, then slowly frowned. “What are you playing at?” he asked suspiciously.

“Nothing,” Harry said, “honest. I just don’t want to fight with you anymore.”

“Uh-huh,” said Draco, “so you’ll just quit the team, is it? Just like that.”

“You can have the position,” Harry insisted. “I overheard Flint talking with Montague, and you were their other choice anyway.”

“I know,” Draco said, sulkily. “Flint wanted me to play Reserve.”

“Well, that’s brilliant,” Harry grinned. Then he quickly stopped grinning. “Isn’t it?”

Draco sniffed. “Not really,” he said. “I mean, I guess it’s better than Chaser...”

“He offered you Chaser?”

Draco shrugged and nodded. “Yeah, I guess.”

“But...but he already had enough Chasers...” Harry frowned, confused. “Was he going to kick someone off the team for you?”

“Well, I don’t want to be a stupid Chaser anyway,” Draco snapped.

“Okay, okay, sorry!” said Harry. “That’s fine, I wasn’t saying that—anyway, whatever, you can be Seeker, all right?”

“And what’s in it for you?” Draco sneered.

“Nothing!” said Harry quickly. “Well, I mean, hopefully I’ll get my friends back...”

“Oh,” said Draco. He didn’t say anything for a while. Then, “you’d just...do that? Quit the team? For me?”

Harry shrugged, even though the idea of not flying anymore was like a knife in his gut. “Well...yeah,” he said. “I’d rather have friends then teammates, I guess.”

“Oh,” Draco said again. He looked down at his shoes and scuffed a foot awkwardly on the stone floor. “Well...well, I dunno, I guess, maybe, you could still have both,” he mumbled. “You can stay on the team.”

“What, really? And you’d forgive me anyway?”

Draco shrugged. “Reservist would be _that_ bad, I suppose...” he said.

Harry grinned at him. “You really mean it? Hey—we would _both_ be on the team, then!” he said happily. “That’s great!”

“Well...” Draco smiled, just a little bit, “I guess. And it is pretty common for Seekers to be injured, you know,” he pointed out, his expression brightening. “I mean, the odds are good that I’ll end up playing almost as many matches as you do, anyway...” Draco shrugged again. “And this way when the other teams try to take our Seeker out ahead of time, they’ll be jinxing _you_ instead of _me_ ,” he added. The smirk on his pointed face was still a little grudging, but very smug.

“Oh gee,” said Harry, “thanks for that. Now I feel really excited about this idea.”

Draco laughed.

“So,” Harry asked trepidatiously, “friends, then?”

Draco nodded, and smiled awkwardly. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess so.”

Harry’s grin was broad with relief. “Brilliant,” he said.

 

It was a few days before Crabbe and Goyle—always slow on the uptake—realized that Draco was talking to Harry again, and they were no longer supposed to tease or ignore him. Draco made it clear that things had changed, though, and they—as always—followed his lead. Even Pansy and her gang of girls started being nice to Harry again, albeit grudgingly; except for Daphne Greengrass, who was now cross with both Harry and Draco.

Eventually things settled back to normal, though; or at least, Harry could pretend that they had. Hermione still wasn’t talking to him, of course, and the little Gryffindors kept fearfully avoiding him, although the red-haired girl sometimes smiled at Harry when no one else was looking. But he had his friends back, and it no longer seemed so awful to end up wet and covered in mud every practice, maybe because Draco was now just as cold and miserable as he was, although he stubbornly tried to pretend not to mind.

Flint had quite cheerfully welcomed Draco onto the team as Reserve Seeker, as had the rest of the boys. Montague, especially, made a point of being friendly to Draco while shooting Harry dark looks, but Harry didn’t mind. He was just glad to have his friend flying with him.

Unfortunately for Marcus Flint, however, Lucius Malfoy did not seem to think that Reserve Status merited the donation of expensive broomsticks, so Harry and Draco remained the only team members flying on Nimbus 2001s.

Harry nibbled the end of his quill and contemplated the broom he had just drawn in the margins of his notes. He didn’t think it looked sleek enough, but he wasn’t much of a drawer; under the circumstances, Harry decided, it was a pretty decent Nimbus. He grinned and started work on a snitch.

He wasn’t bothering to pay any attention to class, because he was in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and there was rarely anything worth paying attention to: Lockhart, for all of the Slytherins’ early high hopes, had yet to do anything more interesting than read excerpts from his books. Daphne, Pansy, and Millicent still evinced enjoyment of the DADA classes, sighing and simpering over Lockhart’s accounts of his adventures. Everyone else was just bored.

Harry grinned, though, so delighted at being back in his friends’ good graces that he forgot that he usually tried to look tired and sickly and nondescript in Lockhart’s class, in the—usually vain—hope that the pompous professor would chose a different subject for his demonstrations.

“Harry, yes!”

Harry jerked upright, blotting a huge smear of ink across his snitch, and had to bite his tongue to keep from swearing aloud. Lockhart was beaming, his fingers crooked in an awful beckoning twitch to summon Harry from his seat.

“Oh, professor, I’m really not sure I’m the best choice to—”

“Nonsense, Harry!” Lockhart interrupted him. “You’re perfect, my boy, absolutely perfect! I daresay you could have a career on the stage, if you put your mind to it! Hop to it now, Harry, can’t keep the public waiting, what?” He gave a hearty laugh, and winked at the girls in the front row, who tittered happily in response.

Despite his protests, Harry was hauled to the front of the classroom and made to play the part of a yeti with a head cold. Harry wasn’t sure if Lockhart was meant to have cured the yeti’s sinus trouble or chased him out of town—the story seemed to vacillate between both results—but as Harry’s role mainly consisted of sneezing a lot and moaning unhappily, it didn’t seem to matter.

“And then the beast grave a great sneeze—come on, Harry, with _conviction!—_ and I was drenched—absolutely _drenched—_ with yeti mucus. I know! It was horrible! Well, I was undeterred, and despite the creature’s hacking coughs—louder, Harry, louder!—I went straight for it, wand out! The yeti struggled—go on, Harry, really fight!—poor thing was too stupid to know I meant to help, I suppose—but I persevered—pressed the creature to the floor of its cave—like _that—_ cast the fiendishly difficult Nostralum Restorus Charm—the yeti gave a last, mighty sneeze—really _mighty_ , Harry, you can do it—like that, go on, give us another—oh, brilliant!—and I cured the beast in spite of itself, to the cheers of the townspeople—oh, thank you girls, just like that, yes—and of course, with the help of my handy Rosy Robe Restorer (good for any occasion, never leave home without it!) I was soon good as new, and perfectly presentable to attend the village’s quaint but heartfelt ceremony of gratitude.”

Lockhart beamed modestly and brushed his robes off while Harry struggled to his feet behind the bowing professor. The girls in the front row were applauding, but the rest of the class was fighting laughter. Draco wasn’t even bothering to fight it, but was actually pounding his desk as he howled. Crabbe and Goyle, of course, joined in.

Harry scowled at his friends and stomped back to his seat, ignoring Lockhart’s attempts to make him take a bow.

“Oh well done, Potter,” Draco cackled, “well done. I thought he’d got you pinned with that idiot villager last week, but I was wrong. A snot-spewing yeti: now _that’s_ the role you were always meant to play.”

Harry glared. While the others continued laughing, Draco suddenly stopped mid-chuckle. “Er,” he muttered, “I meant—ah, sorry.” Draco winced, his pale cheeks pink. He seemed to have just remembered that he was no longer making fun of Harry, but too late.

The bell rang and Lockhart said something about homework, which Harry ignored. He never did homework for Lockhart’s clasas; celebrities, Lockhart continuously demurred, had better things to do. Harry figured that if he had to put up with the obnoxious professor fawning over him, at least he could get _something_ out of it, no matter how jealous the rest of the class was of Harry’s free pass. Besides, right now Harry felt they deserved it. None of _them_ had to impersonate sneezing yetis. Given the option, Harry would have rather done the homework—but since he didn’t have the option, he certainly wasn’t going to do _both._

He brushed past the others and out the door as fast as he could, stomping off down the corridor.

Draco came after him. “Potter, wait!” he called. Harry ignored him, and walked faster. He turned a corner, while the rest of the class kept going towards the stairs. Draco ran up behind Harry and caught his arm. “I said wait, Harry, hang on!” he panted.

“What?” Harry asked shortly.

“I’m sorry, okay?” said Draco. “I didn’t mean...”

“Whatever,” Harry said, and tried to pull away.

Draco hung on. “Don’t be like that, come on,” he wheedled, “I said I was sorry.”

“Okay,” said Harry, “fine. It’s not a big deal.”

“Well...good then,” said Draco, letting go of Harry’s arm. They stood there a minute awkwardly in the empty hallway. “Sorry,” Draco mumbled again. Harry shrugged.

Draco shifted back and forth uncomfortably, but ultimately he seemed to decide that he owed Harry a peace offering. He suddenly leaned in quite close and said, in a voice that was barely more than a whisper, “hey...you want to know something? You can’t tell anyone, I mean not even Goyle or Crabbe...”

“What?” Harry breathed. “I won’t, I promise.”

“Okay,” said Draco, “come on.”

He dragged Harry through the door of the nearest classroom. It was empty, and a little dusty, like it didn’t see a lot of use. Draco eased the door shut behind them and locked it, then made a big show of walking around the classroom, checking to make sure there was no one there to overhear.

Harry perched on a desk in the middle of the room, chewing his lip and trying not to fidget.

Finally Draco seemed satisfied that they were alone. He climbed onto the desk opposite Harry. He looked very pale and serious. “Remember,” Draco said gravely, “you can’t tell _anyone_. Father would kill me if he found out I told you, so...just make sure you keep it a secret. All right?”

“Yeah,” said Harry quickly, “yeah absolutely.”

Draco nodded. “Well, something big is going to happen this year,” he said. “Father told me, it was fifty years ago the first time it happened, and no one’s heard anything about it since but... _this_ year...”

“Yeah?” Harry was sitting forward eagerly, so close to Draco that their noses were nearly touching. His friend’s grey eyes glittered in the dim light.

“The Heir of Slytherin has returned,” Draco said.

“The what?” asked Harry.

“It means the Chamber of Secrets will open again,” Draco said shortly. He was frowning, annoyed that his grand pronouncement was falling flat in front of an ignorant audience.

“The Chamber of Secrets?” said Harry. “What’s that?”

“You’ll see,” Draco said, his smugness at knowing something that Harry didn’t returning the smile to his pointed face.

“Oh, come on,” Harry coaxed, “you have to tell me more than that, please...”

“All I know is, the last time the Chamber was opened was fifty years ago. It was all hushed up, and no one ever really figured out what happened for sure. But it’s going to happen again, right now.”

“Opened by whom?” asked Harry. “Slytherin’s Heir?”

“Yeah,” Draco said, “obviously not the same person as it is now—that would be impossible.” He laughed, then shrugged. “But some other descendent of Slytherin’s bloodline.”

“Well, who was it last time?”

“I don’t know,” Draco answered. “They were expelled of course, whoever they were—they’re probably still in Azkaban, actually.”

“Azkaban?” Harry repeated dumbly.

Draco rolled his eyes. “The Wizard prison? You’ve seriously never heard of it?”

“No,” said Harry. He squirmed defensively and changed the subject: “But anyway, what Chamber?” he asked. “I’ve never heard of any Chamber of Secrets before.”

“Oh come on, Potter,” Draco snapped, “read up or something. I know it’s not your fault you don’t know anything important, but seriously...even Granger realized that she needed to remedy how pathetically ignorant growing up with Muggles left her, and she’s just a—a Gryffindor.”

Harry was too curious to waste his time deflecting the insult to Hermione. “Okay,” he said shortly, “I’ll go the library or something tomorrow, all right? Just tell me about this Chamber-thing.”

“Salazar Slytherin built it before he left the school,” said Draco, a little impatiently, “after his argument with Gryffindor. It’s said that only Slytherin’s Heir can open it, and control whatever is hidden inside.”

“And he’s here now?” Harry whispered. “Slytherin’s Heir?” He looked around, as if the mysterious wizard might suddenly pop out of the shadows of the empty classroom. “Who is it?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Draco.

“Oh, you’ve got to tell me,” Harry pleaded.

“I can’t,” Draco said waspishly. “I don’t know. Father wouldn’t tell me anything else.” He made a face. “He said it would look suspicious if I knew too much.” Draco sniffed. “I think he was just cross with me for letting the Mudbloo—for letting Granger outscore me on our exams.” He sulkily kicked his heels against the side of the desk.

Harry frowned. “Is that why you’ve been so mean to Hermione lately?” he asked. “Because she beat you on some tests?”

“No,” Draco replied quickly, “I just don’t like her.”

“Because she’s smarter than you?”

“No! And she’s not,” he insisted grumpily, “she can’t be.” Draco scowled. “It’s...it’s the teachers,” he continued, “they go easy on her, that’s all. They take pity, you know, because of her upbringing. It’s not fair.”

Harry raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He’d worked on revision with Hermione often enough to know that she didn’t need any academic favors. Besides, the only class they had with the Gryffindors was Potions, and Snape never went easy on _anyone._ Even if he was going to, his favorite student was definitely Draco—not Hermione.

But Hermione wasn’t even talking to Harry right now, so he didn’t need to defend her, especially if it risked upsetting the friend who _was_ speaking to him. And Harry really didn’t want to start fighting again so he just grunted noncommittally and changed the subject: “So anyway, I’m thinking of getting Lockhart a Christmas gift,” Harry said.

Draco gaped. “What?” he said.

Harry nodded seriously. “Yeah, I’m thinking a really big needle. He can use it to deflate his fat head.”

Draco convulsed with laughter. Harry grinned. “But see, I don’t know,” he continued. “Should I get him a string, too, so he can tie it down, or just let it go whizzing around the room like a big head-shaped balloon?”

They both laughed until the door banged open. “Caught you!” roared Argus Filch.

The crotchety old caretaker was the bane of every student of Hogwarts, and Harry and Draco had had a few run-ins with the nasty, flinty-eyed man before. Whatever crime he was about to frame them for—inhabiting a classroom contrary to lesson prerogative, or just dawdling—they weren’t going to wait to find out.

Harry and Draco both scrambled off the desks. They bolted for the door, nearly bowling Filch over as they barreled through it. Cold fingers scrabbled at Harry’s shoulder, but he lurched free. “Run!” yelped Draco. Harry did, flat out, and made it halfway down the corridor before it occurred to him to wonder where Filch’s ever-present cat, Mrs. Norris, was hiding.

Then something twined itself around his ankles and he slammed to the floor, hitting the stones so hard that all the breath was knocked out of his lungs. He had a glimpse of Draco’s heels, and his flapping robes, as the other boy kept sprinting away; then Harry was hauled to his feet, a tight hand twisting his collar.

“Kick my cat, will you, boy!” Filch spat, his face inches from Harry’s own. The caretaker’s eyes bulged. There was a thick tartan scarf bound around his head, and his nose was unusually purple.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I know what you say!” Filch shrieked. “All of you filthy little brats! ‘I’d like to give Mrs. Norris a kick,’ you say!” He paused, wheezing, to take a breath, but Harry didn’t dare speak. “Well what do you have to say for yourself!”

“I—I just tripped, I didn’t see her—”

“Kick my cat, will you!” Filch yelled again. Harry winced. “I’ll have you this time, Potter! Nobody kicks my cat!”

“But I didn’t—”

Harry’s protests fell on deaf ears. He was dragged off down the hallway, Filch’s hand fastened tight in the collar of his robes, Harry’s feet skidding on the flagged stone floor. They went down several flights of stairs, Mrs. Norris following silently. She seemed quite unscathed from her run in with Harry’s feet while Harry, by contrast, knew he would have bruises in the morning. His knee ached and his elbows smarted from where he had hit the hard floor.

He was very careful not to trip on the cat on their way down the stairs.

Harry had never been inside Filch’s office before; it was a place most students avoided. The room was dingy and windowless, lit by a single oil lamp dangling from the low ceiling. A faint smell of fried fish lingered about the place. Wooden filing cabinets stood around the walls; from their labels, Harry could see that they contained details of every pupil Filch had ever punished. The trouble-making twins who played Beater for Gryffindor, and who so despised Harry, had an entire drawer to themselves. A highly polished collection of chains and manacles hung on the wall behind Filch’s desk. It was common knowledge that he was always begging Dumbledore to let him suspend students by their ankles from the ceiling.

Mrs. Norris hopped up onto a rich blue pillow next to the desk and curled up without ever taking her eerie, lantern-like eyes off of Harry.

Filch grabbed a quill from a pot on his desk and began shuffling around looking for parchment.

“Think they can get away with everything,” he muttered, “these _students._ Sneaking butterbeer and firewhiskey into my classrooms, leaving your mess everywhere...frog brains and bottles.... Well I’ve caught you now, Potter...I’ll show you all a thing or two...”

He retrieved a large roll of parchment from his desk drawer and stretched it out in front of him, dipping his long black quill into the ink pot.

“ _Name_...Harry Potter. _Crime_...”

“It was an accident!” said Harry.

“Accident!” Filch spat, “accident my foot! You all plot against her, you filthy ragamuffins! I _hear_ you!” he shouted, a drip shivering unpleasantly at the end of his bulbous nose. “ _Crime_...animal cruelty... _suggested sentence_...” He was breathing very heavily and his breath rattled wetly in his throat.

Harry waited for his punishment with baited breath.

“EXPULSION!” Filch shrieked. Wet flecks of spittle came along with the word, and splattered against Harry’s glasses.

Harry jumped in his chair. He opened his mouth, but before he could protest, the office door swung open behind him. Harry and Filch both turned to see who had dared interrupt.

A tall, black-cloaked figure, looking very much like an unhappy stormcrow, loomed in the open doorway. It was Snape. He raised an eyebrow unpleasantly and said, very slowly, “I believe, Mr. Filch, that as Potter’s head of house, any decision regarding expulsion rests with _me_.”

Harry swallowed hard.

Filch stared at the intruder with bloodshot eyes. His chest heaved.

“May I ask Potter’s crime?” Snape asked pleasantly.

“He kicked my cat,” Filch snapped.

“Indeed,” said Snape. An eyebrow curled.

“It was an accident, professor!” Harry said quickly. “I didn’t see her, and I tripped, and—”

“QUIET!” Filch roared. Harry shut-up.

Snape walked into the office. He looked around appraisingly. Filch and Mrs. Norris watched him with identical, baleful stares. Hidden inside the sleeves of his robes, Harry crossed his fingers. He knew that Snape got on better with Filch than most of the other professors, and Snape had never seemed to like Harry all that much. If he decided that Filch was in the right...would they really send Harry back to Privet Drive? Harry could barely breathe, thinking of it.

Snape wandered over to Filch’s desk. He lifted up a glossy envelope, turned it back and forth in his hands a few times, then tossed it idly back to the desk. Snape was smirking, but Filch’s pasty face had turned the same purple as the envelope.

“I doubt Potter would have kicked your cat deliberately,” Snape said. “And at any rate—” his eyes flicked to the recumbent feline “—she seems unharmed.”

Filch’s mouth worked. Harry held his breath. Finally the caretaker ground out between his teeth, “guess it might have been an accident.” He looked like the admission pained him.

“I’m sure it was,” Snape said smoothly, “which makes this nothing more than an unpleasant misunderstanding, I believe.”

Filch nodded once, very stiffly.

Snape smiled thinly and walked away from the desk. His hand closed over Harry’s shoulder. “Then Potter and I shall bid you good evening,” the Potions Master said. He pulled Harry upright.

“Er, evening, Mr. Filch,” Harry muttered, not daring to meet the furious man’s eye.

Filch snarled something unintelligible and Snape swept himself and Harry out of the small office. The door slammed shut behind them but Snape didn’t release his hold on Harry’s shoulder. His grip was every bit as tight as Filch’s, and even more frightening.

“Mr. Potter,” he said icily, “I do hope you have learned your lesson about prying into things that do not concern you.”

“Oh, yes sir,” said Harry, who had no idea what Snape was talking about. “Absolutely.”

Snape stared at him very closely. His black eyes glittered. Harry nervously pulled his glasses off and wiped them clean of Filch’s spittle. When he looked back up, Snape hadn’t moved.

“Very well,” he said at last. “I suggest you go and find Mr. Malfoy. He will no doubt be waiting for you in your common room by now, anxious to discover your fate.”

“Ah,” said Harry, “right, I’ll do that.” He tried to smile as innocently as he could manage.

Snape blinked at him once more, then turned in a swirl of black robes and stalked away down the hallway without another word. “Thank you, professor,” Harry called after the retreating figure. Snape gave no sign of having heard.

Harry looked back over his shoulder at Filch’s closed office door, shuddered, and ran off to the safety of the dungeons.

 

 

Harry spent the next week dodging Filch. The caretaker seemed to have developed an uncanny habit of showing up anywhere that Harry was. Fortunately, now that Draco was talking to Harry again—and thus, Crabbe and Goyle were as well—he had friends to hide behind. Specifically two very tall, broad-shouldered friends, that he could duck down and disappear behind whenever Filch appeared.

“He’s got it in for you,” Goyle observed mournfully.

The others nodded agreement. “I know,” said Harry, “and I don’t know why. That cat hurt me more than I hurt it.”

Crabbe laughed. “I wish I’d seen that!” he said. “What I wouldn’t give for the chance to give Mrs. Norris a good kick!”

“I told you!” Harry hissed, looking around to make sure that Filch wasn’t lurking within earshot, “I tripped!”

“Sure,” said Crabbe, with a broad wink, “of course you did.” Goyle chuckled.

Nothing Harry said could convince either boy that he hadn’t attacked the cat deliberately. He supposed he didn’t really mind, so long as Filch never heard them talking about it. Crabbe and Goyle had both decided that Harry was a hero for braving Filch’s wrath to visit retribution on the hated feline. Goyle called him a martyr to the school until Draco, a little miffed at seeing Harry get so much praise and attention for something that he, at least, knew full well had been an accident, pointed out that because he had sent Snape to Harry’s rescue, Harry hadn’t received any punishment, which made martyrdom a moot point. Crabbe and Goyle of course agreed with Draco.

That didn’t stop them from showering Harry with accolades for the effort. Older Slytherins who heard about the incident were more discreet in showing their admiration than were Crabbe and Goyle, but they still tossed Harry the occasional congratulatory wink or nod, and Derrick and Bole applauded him the next morning at practice for no reason at all.

Harry decided that, in this case, the truth was overrated, and he settled back to bask in the glory.

 

 

By the time Hallowe’en arrived a week later, everyone but Filch had forgotten about Mrs. Norris and her altercation with Harry’s feet. The whole school was happily anticipating the Hallowe’en Feast; the Great Hall had been decorated with the usual live bats, Hagrid’s vast pumpkins had been carved into lanterns large enough for three men to sit in, and there were rumors that Dumbledore had booked a troupe of dancing skeletons for the entertainment.

On the day of the feast, the second year Slytherins could hardly keep composed through their classes. Unfortunately, their last class of the day was Transfiguration, and Professor McGonagall never let anyone slack off. She pressed on through the lecture and the lesson (they were turning bones into silverware, which would ordinarily have been quite interesting, but not today), despite her inattentive students. The later it got, the more everyone fidgeted. Finally even the strict, sour-faced head of Gryffindor house gave in to the inevitable, and told the class that they could pack up their things and talk amongst themselves until the bell rang. “But I expect exquisite essays from all of you on Monday,” she added sternly.

Harry was joking with Draco about the possibilities of a special, holiday-themed Quidditch practice (floating pumpkins instead of Quaffles, and skulls for Bludgers), when the fork-shaped bone in front of him suddenly exploded.

Harry yelped and fell out of his chair, and a bright green firework tumbled across the ceiling. Everyone else laughed and applauded, or rubbed stars from their eyes. Harry climbed back upright with a rueful chuckle that died at the sight of Professor McGonagall bearing down on him. Harry pulled a confused expression of innocent surprise onto his face, but there was a burn mark on his desk and a trail of smoke rising from it.

“Five points from Slytherin, Potter,” McGonagall snarled, vanishing the firework with a flick of her wand.

“But Professor, I didn’t—”

“And you will stay after and clean up your mess. The rest of you are dismissed.”

McGonagall conjured up a sponge and bowl of soapy water, and the rest of the Slytherins stood and gathered their school bags, all talking excitedly about the feast as they hurried from the room. Harry angrily started scrubbing.

He seethed at the unfairness of it all, but didn’t dare complain aloud. “Rotten luck,” Draco muttered as he walked out, trailed by Crabbe and Goyle, who flipped Harry a thumbs-up and a sympathetic grimace, respectfully.

The girls giggled as they walked past his desk, and Daphne Greengrass gave Harry a very satisfied wink. “That’s really too bad, Potter,” she said, “I do hope someone saves you some dinner.” She tossed her hair smugly before she flounced out with the rest of the students.

Harry stopped wondering where the firework had come from.

He attacked the soot-streaks on his desk with enthusiasm, scrubbing as he had never scrubbed for Aunt Petunia. His stomach growled. Harry sneaked a surreptitious glance at McGonagall. Surely she must be in a hurry to get to the feast, too; but the Transfiguration Professor looked perfectly content sitting behind her desk with a roll of parchment open in front of her.

Harry groaned and kept scrubbing.

The few minutes he spent working on his desk felt like days, but finally McGonagall came over and peered down at his soapy efforts. “That looks good enough, Potter,” she said grudgingly, and vanished the soapy remnants. “You may go—”

“Thanksprofessor!” Harry shouted, and bolted from the room. 

“No running in the halls, Potter!” McGonagall shrieked after him. 

Harry sped down the hallways, tripped several times on the steps, and finally skidded into his dungeon common room. He didn’t bother to take his bag down to the dormitory, but dropped it just inside the secret stone door, and ran out again. By the time he reached the Great Hall, everyone else was already inside.

Harry paused in the entrance to gasp for air and massage the stitch in his side, then looked up. He couldn’t help but gape with awe. The magical ceiling showed a crystal-clear night, candles floated suspended in the air like warm stars, and the tables glittered invitingly with gold plates. Harry forced himself upright and hurried across the room to the Slytherin table, eager for a taste of all those tantalizing smells.

Harry slid onto the bench next to Draco, who had saved him a seat. “Thanks,” he panted.

“Took you long enough,” Crabbe complained.

“I doubt they held the feast on Harry’s account,” Draco retorted, smirking. Harry grinned, Crabbe’s wide face flushed, and everyone else laughed. “They’ll feed you soon enough, you glutton,” Draco rolled his eyes and reassured their friend.

“Let’s just hope there’s no troll this year,” Theodore joked, and the others nodded fervent agreement. Harry’s mouth was already watering. He hoped that whatever entertainment was scheduled, it would come  _ after  _ the food.

Harry was in luck: Everyone looked up as firecrackers exploded from a floating pumpkin in the middle of the ceiling, a swarm of bats burst forth and swooped across the hall, and when Harry looked down at the table once more the food had appeared. He dug in immediately, wanting to make sure that in case there was an interruption, it would be  _ after  _ his stomach had stopped growling. 

The feast proceeded without a hitch, though, and Harry eventually slowed down enough to really enjoy his food. Crabbe and Goyle still swallowed everything as fast as they could, but they always ate like that. Everyone else lingered over the delicious food: fried bat wings, pumpkin seed poppers, ectoplasmic pudding, and candied warts were among the special treats that festively fleshed out the usual assortment of Hogwarts goodies. Harry was still nibbling a leg of frosted bone-bread when the evening’s entertainment commenced: those dancing skeletons turned out to be more than rumor after all.

Harry joined the rest of the students in applauding. The skeletal troupe provided their own music: drumming on one another’s skulls, sawboning violin-style across their spines, and playing ribcage xylophones. They clattered around in an elaborate tap-dance that finally culminated with an impossible feat of acrobatics that involved tossing bones back and forth and reassembling themselves in midair. Harry was so impressed that he actually stood up to clap; he wasn’t the only one.

There was one person in the Great Hall who didn’t look thrilled with the skeletons: Harry spotted the little Weasley girl slinking away from the Gryffindor table, her red head bowed. He thought about pointing this out to Draco, and making a joke about cowardly lions, but then thought better of it. Much as he liked being the one to make his friends laugh, he wasn’t keen on the idea of doing it at the expense of the shy little girl.

Harry turned back to his meal to discover, much to his delight, that while the skeletons had been distracting them all, dinner had vanished, to be replaced with desert. With no more concern for Gryffindors, jokes, or conversation of any sort, Harry focused on the pumpkin-crusted treacle tart in front in him. Until he was done with that, nothing else mattered one whit.

Harry sat back at last with a satisfied sigh, just a little bit fuller than was comfortable, but he was okay with that. Eventually even Goyle finished; the bristly-haired boy speculatively poked one last cauldron cake, but decided at last that he didn’t have the room to spare.

He did lick the icing off his finger, though.

The skeletons packed up their instruments—such as they were—and trundled out of the hall, chattering their goodbyes. The plates cleared, leaving the tables bare and shining once more. One by one students started to stand up and stretch, happily bemoaning their over-stuffed stomachs. As Harry and the other Slytherins waddled out of the hall, the last of the pumpkin lanterns flickered out behind them.

They climbed the main stairs with the rest of the students, everyone talking at once. Goyle said something about bones, and Harry nodded idly, only half-attending. When some rather boisterous Gryffindors tried to push past them, Crabbe shoved back, and for a few moments there was a jam on the staircase as everyone shoved and laughed. With the warm glow of the feast still making everything feel pleasant and comfortable (and vaguely pumpkin-scented), even roughhousing with Gryffindors took on a good-natured vibe.

The two houses separated at the top of the stairs, streaming around to come into the main hallway from opposite sides. Then the Slytherins would be off to their dungeons, and the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws up to their towers, and Hufflepuffs—well, they would go wherever Hufflepuffs went, Harry supposed.

The chatter, the bustle, the noise died suddenly. The people in front stopped, everyone else bunching up behind them. Draco shouldered his way through to the front of the crowd; or, Crabbe and Goyle did most of the shouldering at Draco’s signal, and Harry and Draco pressed through the gaps that the bulkier boys procured.

They emerged at the very front of the cluster of students, pushing in front of several sixth years who stood stunned, too shell-shocked to protest. Harry’s jaw dropped when he saw what everyone was staring at:

There was a large puddle of water on the floor, and above it, a message had been daubed in foot-high letters on the wall between two windows. It shimmered in the light cast by the flaming torches.

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN  
OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

The torch bracket beneath the message held more than just a torch: dangling there from her tail was Mrs. Norris, stiff as a board, her eyes wide and staring.

Harry stepped backwards, and knocked into someone else who was pressing closer to see the grisly sight. He stumbled forward. Draco stepped out next to him of his own volition, his pale face flushed. He was grinning.

“Enemies of the Heir, beware!” he shouted gleefully. “You’ll be next, Muggle-borns!”

Harry swallowed hard, and looked awkwardly away from his friend. He caught sight of Hermione Granger standing amidst a pack of Gryffindors that included Weasley and Longbottom. Harry turned away quickly, feeling almost as sick from the coldness in her eyes as from the sight of the hanging, immobile cat.

“What’s going on here? What’s going on?”

Attracted no doubt by Draco’s shout, Argus Filch came shouldering his way through the crowd. Then he saw Mrs. Norris and fell back, clutching his face in horror.

“My cat! My cat! What’s happened to Mrs. Norris?” he shrieked.

And his popping eyes fell on Harry.

“ _You!”_ he screeched. “ _You!_ You’ve murdered my cat! You’ve killed her! I’ll kill you! I’ll—”

“ _Argus!”_

Dumbledore had arrived on the scene, followed by a number of other teachers. In seconds, he had swept past Harry and Draco, and the rest of the students, and detached Mrs. Norris from the torch bracket.

“He killed my cat, Headmaster!” Filch shrieked. “Potter, he has it in for her—this isn’t the first time he’s attacked her! Just last week he tried to murder her in the hallway—”

“I did not!” Harry interrupted angrily. His feet carried him forward, toward the professors and the angry caretaker. “I tripped, I didn’t even know she was there—the _cat_ tripped _me_ , I didn’t do _anything_ , professor, you have to believe me—”

Harry slipped in the pool of water and would have fallen had someone not caught his shoulder. The firm grasp of Proffesor Dumbledore drew him upright. “I do believe you, Harry,” Dumbledore said quietly.

“He killed my cat!” Filch screamed. “He did it, he did it!”

“I didn’t!” Harry cried.

“Harry was at the feast with all of us the whole time,” Draco interrupted. That technically wasn’t true—Harry had arrived late—but Harry wasn’t about to point that out right now, and Draco lied so smoothly that even Harry almost believed him. “He couldn’t have touched your cat, you stupid man,” Draco sneered at Filch, ignoring the disapproving look he got from Dumbledore for his rudeness. “We’d have seen him leave, and he didn’t.”

Harry looked over at his friends and grinned. “Thanks,” he mouthed. Draco nodded slightly and stepped on Crabbe’s foot before he could add anything like, possibly, the fact that Harry had only shown up after everyone else was already seated. Crabbe’s mouth snapped shut.

“And—excuse me, Professor, but—but Harry got here the same time as the rest of us. Just now.” Hermione Granger, her hand half-raised, stepped forward from the cluster of Gryffindors standing on the other side of the dangling cat. “I saw him come around the corner. There’s no way he could have done anything to Mrs. Norris, because we all would have seen him.”

Harry stared at Hermione, his mouth agape. She flushed, and ducked her head, and stepped back quickly to stand between Longbottom and Weasley. They were both looking at her like she had lost her mind.

Filch, his eyes popping, opened his mouth again, but Dumbledore spoke before he could get a word out. “Thank you Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy. Argus, come with me. Severus, if you would—?”

“Of course, Headmaster.” Snape stepped immediately to Dumbledor’'s side, his dark eyes flicking momentarily to Harry. Professor McGonagall came over as well, right on the heels of Snape’s flapping black robes.

Lockhart stepped forward eagerly.

“My office is nearest, Headmaster—just upstairs—please feel free—”

“Thank you, Gilderoy,” said Dumbledore. 

The silent crowd parted to let them past. Lockhart, looking excited and important, hurried after Dumbledore; so did Professors McGonagall and Snape. Filch gave Harry a furious, heartbroken glower, before running shakily after his murdered cat.

Harry felt very small, and very alone. The rest of the students stared at him. Several edged away and it seemed like everyone was avoiding his eye to whisper about him. Slowly they started to meander away, now that the excitement was over. Everyone took care to give the message, the water, and Harry, a very wide berth.

Draco walked forward at last and clapped Harry on the shoulder. “You all right?” he asked. “Merlin, I thought Filch was going to slit your throat right here!” He snickered, Crabbe and Goyle joining in, but Harry could only manage a weak smile. “Yeah,” he said, “me too.”

“Well I don’t think it’s very funny.” Hermione Granger bustled over to join them. She was glaring at Draco, and at the two taller boys looming next to him.

Draco smirked at her quite horribly. “No,” he said, “I imagine you wouldn’t.” He laughed unkindly.

Harry pointedly turned away from his friends to face Hermione. “Thanks,” he said loudly. “You know, for sticking up for me. I appreciate it.”

“Oh, well.” Hermione shrugged. She looked embarrassed again. “All I did was tell the truth.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, “but still. Thanks.”

“No problem,” muttered Hermione. “I mean, it occurred to me that, maybe, I might have been a bit—harsh, before. And—and I don’t think you  _ meant  _ to be mean to anyone. I heard you actually spoke up, a while ago, for Gin—”

“Much as we’re all fascinated, Granger,” Draco interrupted, “I don’t think it looks good for Potter to be lingering around the crime scene like this. Come on, Harry, let’s go.”

Harry hesitated, but Draco did have a point. “Yeah,” he said, “okay. Hermione, I’ll, um—we’ll talk later?”

She nodded. “Yes,” she said, “right. Of course. Good night.”

“Night,” Harry said, and hurried to catch up with his friends. 

He glanced back once and saw Hermione standing alone in the middle of the hallway. She gave him a tiny little wave before she, too, turned and walked away.

Behind her, the torchlight gleamed in the water, and made the stark letters shimmer on the wall. THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

Harry shivered.


	7. The Rogue Bludger

For a few days, the school could talk of little else but the attack on Mrs. Norris. Filch kept it fresh in everyone’s minds by pacing the spot where she had been attacked, as though he thought the attacker might come back. Harry had seen him scrubbing the message on the wall with Mrs. Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover, but to no effect; the words still gleamed as brightly as ever on the stone. When Filch wasn’t guarding the scene of the crime, he was skulking red-eyed through the corridors, lunging out at unsuspecting students and trying to put them in detention for things like “breathing loudly” and “looking happy.”

According to the rumor mill, however, the cat wasn’t even dead. (Harry hated to think what Filch would have done to the students if she had been.) Mrs. Norris had instead been Petrified, which could apparently be cured by something that Professor Sprout had growing in the Greenhouses.

Harry hoped that whatever it was, it grew fast. The sooner Mrs. Norris was revived, the sooner—he hoped—it would be safe for him to walk around Hogwarts again. Harry did his best to stay out of Filch’s way, even going so far as to start carrying his Invisibility Cloak around in his school bag, just in case. Any time Filch did catch sight of Harry, his eyes bugged out and his face went red, and Harry dodged out of sight behind his friends, or through the nearest door.

It was the Tuesday after the attack that Harry next ran into Hermione, quite literally. Harry had lunged through the door to the library, having seen Filch turn the corner at the end of the hallway. Hermione had been stomping out at the same time, and they collided.

Interestingly, though, no books tumbled out of Hermione’s arms, because she wasn’t carrying any.

“Sorry,” said Harry, dodging around her to get inside and out of Filch’s sight.

“No, it’s my fault,” Hermione argued, “I was cross, and I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“Why,” Harry asked, “what’s wrong?”

“Oh, I just wanted to read this one book, only every copy has been checked out, and I didn’t bring mine along this year because I couldn’t fit it in my trunk with all the Lockhart books. There’s a two-week waiting list for it now!”

“Sorry,” Harry said again, “that is a bit rubbish. Will you be able to get the assignment done without it?”

“Oh, I don’t want it for _homework_ ,” Hermione replied. “I just wanted to read up on something, and I’m sure it was mentioned in that book, only I can’t remember what it said, and...” She paused suddenly, and seemed to notice Harry for the first time. “Harry!” she exclaimed. “You don’t happen to have a copy of _Hogwarts, A History_ I could borrow, do you?”

“Afraid not,” Harry said, “sorry.”

“Ooh, blast,” Hermione muttered. “I’m _sure_ it mentions the legend...”

“What legend?”

“The one about the Chamber of Secrets, of course.” Hermione shook her head. “I read _something_ about it, I know I did, but it didn’t seem very important at the time, and now I can’t remember.”

“The Chamber of Secrets?” Harry repeated. “You mean like the stuff that was written on the wall when Mrs. Norris was—you know?” He dropped his voice to a whisper and looked around, in case Filch was listening.

Hermione nodded. “Well of course, why do you think everyone’s trying to research it?”

“Ah,” said Harry, “that does make sense, yeah.”

“I don’t suppose you know anything?” Hermione asked, not very expectantly.

“Just the bit about Slytherin building it before he left.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione said.

“Well, um, apparently Salazar Slytherin argued about something with Godric Gryffindor, and he left the school because of it?” Harry explained, feeling very nervous. “And he built this place called the Chamber of Secrets before he went, and I guess Slytherin’s Heir can open it?” He talked fast, discomfited at knowing something that Hermione didn’t. Harry didn’t think he was very good at explaining things. “And there’s something inside it, I guess, that the Heir is supposed to be able to control? Whatever that means. And, um, it was opened fifty years ago, but whatever happened got all hushed up, so no one really knows what went on.”

Hermione stared at him.

“How do you know all that?” she asked in a very quiet voice.

“Oh, um, Draco told me a while ago,” Harry replied. “I guess his dad told him, or something. You know,” Harry added awkwardly in the silence that followed, “they’re an old wizarding family, they probably pass down all sorts of legends like that...bedtime stories, and whatnot...”

Hermione nodded slowly.

“I see,” she said. “Thanks, Harry. That’s all very...interesting.”

“Sure, no problem.”

“Well, I’d better go. I’ve got lots of revision, still.” Hermione waved and walked away. Harry shifted back and forth uncomfortably. Finally he made up his mind, and went to find Draco.

 

Draco was sitting in front of the fire in the common room. He sat perched on the long couch, Crabbe and Goyle sprawled over a set of gobstones on the floor in front of him. From the animated way he was waving his hands, and the laughter of his audience—Crabbe and Goyle of course, as well as Pansy Parkinson—he was telling a very funny story, but Harry didn’t pay attention.

As the others returned, chuckling, to their game, Harry sidled up behind Draco. “Hey,” he said quietly, “can we talk a minute?”

Draco hopped up. “Sure, Harry. Stay!” he told Crabbe and Goyle, when they would have gotten up and come along. Draco followed Harry to the far corner of the common room, away from the rest of the students. Harry dropped his voice very low and said, “I wanted to ask you about the Chamber of Secrets.”

Draco’s face lit up. “Yeah?” he said. “What about it?”

“That’s what happened to Mrs. Norris, isn’t it?” Harry asked.

Draco nodded. His grey eyes glittered. “Definitely,” he whispered. He grinned. “It’s begun.”

“What has?” Harry said quietly. “And what did you mean, ‘enemies of the heir beware’? And that stuff about Muggle-borns being in trouble?”

“Well, just, I mean, the legends...”

“What do they say?” Harry pressed.

“Just that—look, if Slytherin’s Heir has returned, then he—or she—is supposed to have come back in order to purge the school of anyone unworthy to study magic.”

“You mean Muggle-borns.”

Draco squirmed. “That’s...that’s not... _exactly._..”

“Draco.”

“Well, _yes_ ,” Draco admitted. “But look, Slytherin obviously didn’t mean your mother, he died centuries before she was even born, okay?”

“This isn’t about my mother,” Harry said.

“Well then, don’t worry about it.” Draco turned to go but Harry caught his arm.

“And what about Hermione?” Harry demanded. “She’s my friend.”

Draco automatically rolled his eyes, then winced in apology. “Again, Slytherin wouldn’t have known her, would he?” he evaded.

“Will that matter to the Heir?” Harry asked. Draco worried his lip and didn’t answer right away. Harry shook him. “Does it matter?” he repeated heatedly.

“Of course!” Draco cried.

“I don’t believe you,” Harry said coolly.

Draco sighed in exasperation. “Look, it’s not like the Heir is going to just go around _attacking_ people, all right? And it’s certainly not going after _Granger_ ,” he muttered unhappily.

“How do you know that?” Harry asked.

“Because I’m not that lucky?” Draco drawled, an eyebrow arched in wry amusement.

Harry scowled.

“Okay, look, no one’s been hurt even, all right?” Draco said. “So just calm down. I mean, the cat’s going to be fine—more’s the pity—so there’s nothing to worry about, is there? It’s just a bit of fun.”

“Filch didn’t look like he was having fun,” said Harry.

“I know,” Draco grinned, “wasn’t it brilliant?”

Harry shrugged noncommittally, not wanting to admit that it was, a bit. “But what about Hermione?” he asked. “What’s being Muggle-born have to do with Slytherin’s Heir?”

“It’s just part of the legend,” Draco explained. “The reason Slytherin left the school is because he thought that Hogwarts should only teach kids whose parents were wizards, and not let in the...the other sort.”

“Like my mum.”

“Well, yeah,” Draco admitted, “but look, things were different back then, all right? It was dangerous, telling Muggles about magic, they couldn’t be trusted...”

“Why not?” Harry asked.

“Do you _never_ read your textbooks, Potter?” Draco smirked. “When Hogwarts was formed, Muggles were still trying to light our lot on fire.”

“Well, that was a long time ago!” Harry exclaimed.

“I know,” said Draco, “that’s what I’m _saying_ , isn’t it?”

Harry thought about that. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess so. Okay,” Harry said, “so then what’s this business about Slytherin’s Heir purging the school of the ‘unworthy,’ if you don’t mean all the Muggle-borns?”

“Well look at Filch,” Draco said. “What would you call him?”

“Is he Muggle-born?” Harry asked.

“No idea,” said Draco. He smirked wickedly. “For all I know, the man’s a Squib. He’s certainly an idiot.”

Harry had to agree with that.

“Well then look, so far all the Heir has done is visit out a bit of justly-deserved misery to a horrible old man and his equally horrible cat. All right?” Draco waited for Harry to nod before he continued: “So he clearly won’t be going after anyone _nice_ , just...just people that _deserve_ it, you know?”

Harry thought about that. There were certainly people at Hogwarts who deserved to have a little bit of misery visited upon them. And if the Heir had started with Filch, he had definitely picked the most deserving of them all. If the Heir just kept going on that list...

Harry smiled. This could turn out to be a really good year.

 

Harry didn’t give much thought to the Heir, or to Filch and Mrs. Norris, or even to Hermione, for the rest of the week. Saturday was fast approaching and, with it, his first Quidditch match after weeks of training: Slytherin versus Gryffindor. Flint had the team out at practice nearly every night that week, and the Slytherins weren’t alone in their efforts. They continually passed the Gryffindor team, either on their way to the pitch or off of it.

Usually they just walked past one another very stiffly, but sometimes insults were shouted back and forth and once Bole actually came to blows with the Weasley twins, but the respective team captains—with the help of the rest of their teammates—managed to drag the three boys apart before any serious damage could be done, saving everyone a trip to hospital and the inevitable accompanying detentions. There was still rather a lot of shouting, but thankfully both Flint and Wood seemed to share a belief that spectators should be kept away from practices, which meant the stands had been nearly empty. The way tempers were running these days between Slytherin and Gryffindor, there probably would have been an all-out brawl if more people had been there to see the fight.

Everyone was looking forward to the match, and most especially to soundly beating the other team.

Harry’s housemates were nearly as excited as he was. They all wanted Slytherin to keep up their winning streak and, as he was the sole new player on the team, most of that pressure and attention fell on Harry. “Better not let us down, Potter,” seemed to have become the new Slytherin mantra, with people muttering it at him every time he passed them in the corridors. A few—Crabbe and Goyle mainly, but also some of the others like Pansy Parkinson and her gang of girls—seemed to have confidence in Harry, but the nicest thing most Slytherins said to him was to suggest that Harry should pull the Gryffindor Seeker down with him when he inevitably fell off his broom.

The other students were, of course, being considerably nastier. Everyone else wanted Slytherin to lose, and they didn’t hesitate to let the new Seeker know. “ _Catch_ you later, Potter,” the Weasley twins had growled as the two teams passed on the pitch Tuesday evening, and Harry didn’t think they meant with a mattress. They weren’t the only ones to make veiled or not-so-veiled threats, and Flint soon issued orders that Harry was not to go anywhere alone. Fortunately Crabbe and Goyle really did make for excellent bodyguards, and with Derrick or Bole occasionally supplementing Harry’s friends, he actually felt safer than he had all year. Even Filch wasn’t brave enough to bother Harry when his burly escorts were around.

Not that the precautions managed to keep him out of all trouble: Harry had nearly broken his neck on Tuesday afternoon when he ran downstairs alone to retrieve his forgotten Transfiguration essay, and had tripped over someone’s abruptly-extended foot. After that Harry had gotten thrown out of the library when his quills suddenly started singing, and he had spent twenty minutes on Thursday hopping everywhere because someone had jinxed his socks together. (The Weasley twins had been seen laughing together behind a potted plant, but Harry couldn’t tell if they had been responsible for the jinx, or were just enjoying the show.) Dean Thomas dumped an entire cauldron of pimple potion on Harry in Potions class, which not even Goyle was dim enough to think had been an accident. Still, for the most part, thanks to the presence of his guards, all Harry had to contend with were verbal attacks.

For those, Harry was lucky in that he once again had Draco as a friend. The pale boy was rarely at a loss for a sharp retort, when Harry’s nerves left him tongue-tied. Of course, it was easy for Draco to be flippant: he wouldn’t be the one out there flying.

That was a point that Draco never lost time in making, either: “Careful Harry,” he would smirk, just to needle him, “you know how common it is for Seekers to be taken out!” and, “you’ll be lucky if you even make it to the match.” Whenever they were supposed to be working on revision in the common room, Draco would loudly announce things like, “I heard Wood saying that if anyone wanted to get him a Christmas gift this year, your sudden disappearance would make him really happy,” or, “better watch out, I hear the Weasleys are trying to scrape together enough money to hire a hit-wizard. Maybe they can auction their Cleansweeps off to a museum...”

Harry did his best to grin, knowing that his friend was just trying to lighten the pressure by teasing him—and knowing that no matter how good a face he put on it, Draco still had to be at least a little jealous. Harry figured that that wasn’t helped any by Montague, who had spent the last three practices talking loudly about his conviction that Draco would make a better Seeker, and that they were going to lose because Harry was flying instead.

“Ignore him,” Draco muttered, “just ignore him,” and Harry tried. While Draco did smirk in evident agreement every time Montague extolled his skills, he didn’t say anything in response, and for that Harry was grateful.

All of Harry’s friends were being supportive, although Crabbe’s idea of pummeling a group of Hufflepuffs who had come up with a nasty sing-song about Harry’s imminent demise had landed the unhappy boy in a long detention with McGonagall, for which he partially blamed Harry. Daphne Greengrass grudgingly admitted that she had watched Harry fly, and thought he was probably good enough after all, and Tracy Davis gave him a good luck charm so he wouldn’t fall. Even Hermione almost wished him luck, although a little awkwardly, because it was Gryffindor he would be flying against.

 

Harry woke early on Saturday morning and lay for a while thinking about the coming Quidditch match. He was nervous, more at the thought of letting the team down than because of his prospective danger. He wondered if it was too late to turn the position over to Draco; but of course there was no way Mr. Malfoy could have six Nimbus 2001s delivered in time.

After half an hour of lying there with his insides churning, he got up, dressed, and went down to breakfast early. Harry sat at the long, empty table, and didn’t eat anything.

As eleven o’clock approached, the whole school started to make its way down to the Quidditch stadium. Harry staggered out near the front of the pack, Derrick and Bole sticking tight to his sides and glaring at anyone who got too close. Harry heard several snatches of conversation as he walked past the long tables, most of it centered on the upcoming match, but none of it penetrated the dull buzz of nerves that was filling his ears.

He walked very fast past the Gryffindor table, trying not to listen to their jibes and insults, knowing they would all try to rattle him. “...Seeker’s gonna fall,” someone muttered; another voice chimed in, “hope they’ve got two spares in the wings for the next matches.” A girl laughed unkindly and said, “pity they couldn’t find a cute one, then at least we’d have something to look at while he’s chewing on McLaggen’s bristles.” Several people laughed, and Harry felt his face burning.

“...color of a weed, and about as useful...”

“...not like snakes _need_ hands...”

“...if he knows what a Snitch even looks like...”

“...catch a Bludger by mistake...”

“...signed it with a peacock feather quill!”

The youngest Weasley brother was bemoaning something to his friends, apparently the only three people at the Gryffindor table not yet focused on the upcoming Quidditch match. “Can you believe it?” Weasley continued disgustedly, “the man’s an _idiot_.”

Thomas and Finnegan cackled with laughter. Finnegan said something that Harry didn’t quite catch, but which made the others laugh again, and then the Slytherins were around the corner, out of earshot. Harry swallowed hard, and forced himself to smile bravely while Derrick and Bole led the way outside.

It was a muggy sort of day with a hint of thunder in the air. The little Gryffindor boy—the one who was so afraid of Harry, Creevey something—had found a camera, and was snapping pictures of everything. He floated around the Gryffindor team, clicking away, and making it impossible for the Gryffindors and Slytherins to exchange their usual pre-match insults.

A group of giggly girls hanging around the Gryffindors laughed and whispered loudly to one another about how short and unfortunate Harry looked, compared to Cormac McLaggen. Harry felt his cheeks flush and tried to act like he hadn’t heard them. He had to push his way through the crowd of girls to get to the changing rooms, and he tripped over someone’s foot, landing in the dirt. Pucey hauled Harry to his feet. His face burned while everyone laughed.

McLaggen tossed Harry an arrogant salute, and Creevey’s camera went off like mad.

“Shove off, shutterbug,” Bole sneered at the small boy. Creevey paled and hid behind McLaggen, but didn’t look like he was planning on going anywhere. Bole cracked his knuckles. “Go on,” Harry warned the Gryffindor, “get out of here. We have a match to get ready for, and you’re in our way.”

Creevey yelped in fright. He turned and ran and the Slytherins laughed. Derrick clapped Harry on the back. “Good work,” the Beater told him. Harry shrugged shamefacedly, but grinned at his teammate.

Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle came hurrying over to wish Harry good luck as he entered the locker rooms. Draco’s smile was a little lopsided, but Crabbe and Goyle both slapped Harry’s shoulders hard enough to make him stagger, and Draco paused to give him a last thumbs-up before the three boys ran off to find seats.

Harry and the rest of the team pulled on their emerald Slytherin robes, then sat down to listen to Flint’s pre-match pep talk. “Right,” he said, “right. Well, Gryffindor thinks they’re going to take the Cup from us this year. They think they’re clever, think they’ve worked hard. _Pah_ ,” he sneered derisively. “They can practice all they want, but we’re _Slytherins_. We’re naturally better. We’ve been better for eight years, and we’re not about to give that up now. So get out there, and knock them off their brooms, and shove their stupid faces in the dirt, and prove ‘em wrong.”

Flint stared directly at Harry. “Don’t let the house down, guys,” he said sternly. Then he said, just to Harry, “I’m counting on you ‘specially, Potter. Don’t disappoint me.” Harry swallowed hard and nodded.

He followed Pucey and Bletchley out of the locker room and, hoping his knees weren’t going to give way, walked onto the field to loud cheers. The Gryffindors booed and hissed, of course; and most of the Ravenclaws and Hufflpuffs joined in; but Harry tried very hard to only look at the sections of the bleachers that were decked out in green-and-silver.

Madame Hooch was refereeing. She stood in the middle of the field waiting for the two teams, her broom in her hand. She asked Flint and Wood to shake hands, which they did, giving each other threatening stares and gripping rather harder than was necessary.

“On my whistle,” said Madam Hooch. “Three...two...one...”

Fifteen brooms rose up, high, high into the air. They were off. Harry flew higher than any of them, squinting around for the snitch and trying to avoid everyone else. Sometimes Seekers got involved in the action on the pitch, using their superior speed to dart in and disrupt plays even though they weren’t permitted to actually touch the Quaffle themselves. Harry agreed with Draco’s assessment of such tactics as both reckless and stupid, however; it was hard to win without a Seeker, and there was no sense making it easier for the other team to knock yours out of play, which they would already be hoping to do anyway.

At that very moment, as if to give credence to the theory, a heavy black Bludger came pelting toward Harry; he avoided it so narrowly that he felt it ruffle his hair as it passed.

“All right, Potter?” Bole asked, streaking past with his club in his hand, ready to knock the Bludger back toward a Gryffindor. Harry saw Bole give the Bludger a powerful whack in the direction of Alicia Spinnet, but the Bludger changed direction in midair and shot straight for Harry again.

Harry dropped quickly to avoid it, and Bole dove after the Bludger again, but missed. The heavy iron ball ignored him entirely, pelting along in Harry’s wake. Harry dropped several feet in midair and the Bludger soared overhead, streaking toward Katie Bell. Bell threw her broom into a tight loop to avoid the Bludger, but she needn’t have bothered; before it even reached her, the Bludger swerved like a boomerang and shot at Harry’s head.

Harry put on a burst of speed and zoomed toward the other end of the pitch. He could hear the Bludger whistling along behind him. What was going on? Bludgers never concentrated on one player like this; it was their job to try and unseat as many people as possible...

Harry led the Bludger towards Peregrin Derrick, who sent it spinning hard at the Gryffindor Seeker, Cormac McLaggen. McLaggen dodged and soared underneath Harry, giving him a breezy wave. The Bludger, however, had changed directions again, and was coming back at Harry once more. Harry forced himself to hold still, nervously, trying not to watch the Bludger for fear of drawing the other Seeker’s attention to it.

“What’s wrong, Potter,” McLaggen called, “already convinced you’re so outclassed you aren’t even going to bother trying any more?” He laughed. “Not that I can blame—”

But the arrogant Gryffindor boy’s words were cut off with a yelp of pain as the Bludger, in its quest to get to Harry, crashed right into McLaggen’s side. The Gryffindor Seeker fell several feet before he managed to drag himself upright on his broom again.

Harry grinned, but didn’t have time to enjoy his victory; the Bludger was coming right at his face, hardly delayed by its meeting with McLaggen’s ribs at all, and Harry had to dive very fast out of its way. He took off at full speed, the Bludger swerving along behind him.

It had started to rain; Harry felt heavy drops fall onto his face, splattering onto his glasses. He didn’t have a clue what was going on in the rest of the game until he heard the Gryffindor boy Jordan, who was for some reason commentating again, say, “Gryffindor leading, forty points to twenty—”

Harry swore. It wasn’t much of a lead—just two goals—but he still felt responsible. He was the Seeker; it was his job to find the Snitch before the other team could build up the score. Between the rain on his glasses and the speed at which he was having to fly in order to avoid the Bludger, he had no hopes of catching the Snitch at all.

Harry flew back towards one of the Slytherin Beaters—he couldn’t tell which, in this rain; just saw green robes and a wide bat—and slowed enough to shout to him: “I could use some help with—”

But slowing down had been a mistake. The Bludger slammed into Harry’s side and he nearly toppled off his broom. He managed to catch himself just in time, wrapping desperate hands around the smooth wood of his Nimbus and dragging himself back upright. His ribs burned and he could barely catch his breath. Bole was suddenly there next to him, knocking the Bludger away before it could try again.

“What the Hell is up with this thing?” Bole shouted. “It’s like it’s got it in for you!”

Harry shook his head, too winded to speak. Bole grunted, and knocked the Bludger away again; it had been trying to come up on Harry’s other side, and take him out around the knees.

“Just try and cover me, okay?” Harry gasped. Bole nodded.

Together they took off across the pitch, the telltale whoosh of the Bludger behind them. Harry flew as fast as he could, dodging and swerving sharply, moving too quickly for the Bludger to keep up. Unfortunately, he was also too fast for Bole. If only the rest of the team had been on Nimbus 2001s as well, maybe he could have stayed with Harry, but instead he fell further and further behind, scrambling to catch up.

Finally Harry shook his head and waved him off; he wasn’t doing Harry any good, and the rest of the team needed him too. Even with only one Bludger interested in any players other than Harry, the Slytherins needed both their Beaters to counter the vicious Gryffindor twins.

“Eighty points to one-hundred-and twenty,” Jordan announced gleefully, “Gryffindor leads!”

Higher and higher Harry climbed; he looped and swooped, spiraled, zigzagged, and rolled. Slightly dizzy, he nevertheless kept his eyes wide open. Rain was speckling his glasses and ran up his nostrils as he hung upside down, avoiding another fierce dive from the Bludger. He could hear laughter from the crowd; he knew he must look very stupid, but the rogue Bludger was heavy and couldn’t change direction as quickly as Harry could; he began a kind of roller-coaster ride around the edges of the stadium, squinting through the silver sheets of rain toward the Slytherin goal posts, where Angelina Johnson was trying to get past Bletchley—

A whistling in Harry’s ear told him the Bludger had just missed him again; he turned right over and sped in the opposite direction. Harry saw McLaggen again, pointing and laughing at him, and Harry grinned. He shot off to the far side of the Gryffindor Seeker, then at the last minute turned and dove straight for him. McLaggen yelped and pulled up on his broomstick, but Harry was already diving around him; he wasn’t interested in trying to knock the older, large boy off of his broom.

The Bludger racing behind him, however...

Harry didn’t dare turn around to look behind him, but he heard a satisfying CRUNCH and a cry of pain. Harry grinned. Maybe he could turn this rogue Bludger to his advantage, somehow...

Harry dove right into the midst of play, doing his best to avoid actually hitting anyone while still coming close enough to the Gryffindors that there was a chance that the Bludger tailing him would knock into them on its way. If one of them had jinxed the Bludger, they were probably regretting it about now.

What Harry wasn’t watching for, however, was the _other_ Bludger. This one, hit his way by one of the Weasley twins—Harry couldn’t tell the irksome readheads apart—caught him right on the shoulder as he streaked past Johnson. Harry flailed sideways and would have fallen right off his broom if he hadn’t knocked into the Gryffindor girl instead. She shoved Harry away, but it gave him the chance to scramble back onto his broom.

Harry swore mightily, rubbing his shoulder, and glared viciously at Weasley, who gave him an unrepentant grin and a cocky salute. The whistling sound of the Bludger changing direction again just barely gave Harry enough warning to dive out of the way. Harry actually felt the iron ball brush his robes as it passed. If he had been on a broom that was any slower, he never would have managed to dodge it.

However, his close call ended up working to Harry’s advantage: the Bludger had been hidden behind Harry until the very last second, and Weasley’s ancient Cleansweep was nowhere near as fast or maneuverable as Harry’s shiny new Nimbus. The Bludger shot past Harry and straight into Weasley’s face. Blood sprouted from his nose and mouth, and he dropped towards the ground in a dangerous, semi-controlled wobble.

Harry’s grin was wiped off his face by a loud, angry “Oi!” and another Bludger coming his way from out of nowhere. The other Weasley twin dove after the Bludger that had narrowly missed Harry. His bat, held out just a little too far from his side, did _not_ miss.

Harry doubled over on his broom, the world swimming sickeningly from the blow to the back of his head. Harry’s glasses slipped to the very end of his nose before he crammed them back into place. Harry looked around blearily, tasting blood, and only got out of the way of his own, personal Bludger by sheer luck and the Nimbus’s incredible speed.

“This is ridiculous,” Harry muttered to himself. He looked around for Flint.

Harry spotted the captain fighting Bell for possession of the Quaffle over near the Gryffindor hoops. He dove off, still swerving and spiraling to avoid the Bludger on his tail, although now the sharp motion made his head swim and his stomach roil.

“Flint!” Harry yelled as soon as he got close. “Someone’s bewitched this Bludger! We need time out!”

Flint looked over, scowling, as Bell took advantage of his distraction to wrestle the Quaffle away. “What?” he yelled.

“I said this Bludger—” Harry had to dive quickly to keep from being hit in the head, then whipped around the Gryffindor’s Keeper so fast it made his eyes water. “The Bludger’s hexed!” Harry shouted. “It keeps following me!”

Flint opened his mouth, looking like he was about to argue, when the Bludger abruptly changed direction in mid-air to dive at Harry again. Flint shut his mouth. “Right,” he said, and started waving for Madame Hooch.

Harry didn’t see what happened next, because he was too busy spiraling away from the Bludger and gritting his teeth against the nauseating pain in his head. His chest still ached, and his glasses were so fogged he could barely see. Harry was beginning to wonder why he had ever wanted to play Quidditch in the first place.

Madame Hooch’s whistle rang out at last. Harry breathed a heavy sigh of relief that made his ribs twinge, and dived for the ground.

He never made it; the Bludger, apparently not deterred by the standard rules of time out, was still chasing Harry. He never saw it hit; just, suddenly, felt blistering agony blossom across his aching skull, and then soft darkness swallowed up everything: the rain, the pain, and Harry.

 

Something green and wet floated in front of Harry, something very pale; he tried to raise his hand to catch it, thinking it was the Snitch, but he couldn’t move. Then there was a flash of orange and a white, scared face staring at him; it sounded like someone was crying. Harry opened his mouth to ask who, but a warm, heavy liquid was poured between his lips instead, and everything went blurry. It wasn’t until Harry heard a cold voice saying _“rip...tear...kill...”_ that he realized he must be dreaming.

Harry groaned and wondered why his eyelids felt so heavy. His head was throbbing, his chest ached, and his hands felt bruised. Also, someone seemed to be dabbing water on his forehead. Harry frowned, and struggled, and managed to open his eyes. It was dark, and he wasn’t wearing his glasses so everything was very blurry, but there was no mistaking that ugly face.

“Get off, Dobby!” he said loudly.

The house-elf’s goggling tennis ball eyes were peering at Harry through the darkness. A single tear was running down his long, pointed nose.

“Harry Potter came back to school,” he whispered miserably. “Dobby warned and warned Harry Potter. Ah sir, why didn’t you heed Dobby? Why did Harry Potter let the nasty dark wizard take Harry Potter to school, when his aunt and uncle were keeping him safe?”

“That ‘nasty dark wizard’ happens to be my best friend’s dad,” Harry said angrily, “and if Mr. Malfoy hadn’t come and rescued me—”

But Dobby was no longer listening. He had picked up the bowl he had been using to sponge Harry’s forehead, and smacked himself over the head with it. The elf was doused with lukewarm water, and so was Harry’s left side.

Harry caught Dobby’s spindly wrist and stopped him before he could smack himself with the bowl again, worried that a wild swing was going to connect with his own still-ringing skull. “Stop that!” Harry ordered. He wrenched the bowl away from Dobby and set it down on his bedside table.

Harry looked around, only then realizing that he was in the Hospital Wing. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, wondering what had happened. There had been Quidditch, and then the Bludger...

A loud grunt made Harry jump. He looked over and saw a recumbent form lying in another bed two over from his. The sleeper gave a second grunt and rolled over without waking up. Harry recognized the bruised face of Cormac McLaggen and couldn’t help but grin. It served him right.

Harry realized that the elf was still talking, and turned back to look at him again.

“Ah, Harry Potter is kind indeed, sir!” Dobby said, his large eyes brimming with tears. “Dobby knew that his family must be wrong, that no one who had fought He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named could ever be the sort of wizard they said he must be!”

Harry frowned. “Who is this family of yours,” he demanded, “and what have they been saying?”

Dobby’s eyes went wide and his mouth snapped shut. “Dobby musn’t say, sir! Dobby has been a bad elf, very bad!” And Dobby jumped off the bed and started slamming his head into the nightstand next to Harry’s head.

“Stop that!” Harry hissed. “Someone’s going to hear you!”

Dobby let off beating himself with a quiet hiccough. “Dobby is sorry, sir,” the elf said miserably, “Dobby does not want to get Harry Potter in trouble—but better in trouble than dead, sir!”

“Dead?” Harry repeated dumbly. “What do you mean, ‘dead’? Or, hang on—that Bludger today, was that part of this plot you’ve been talking—”

“Dobby is sorry, sir!” Dobby wailed. “Dobby did not want to hurt Harry Potter, but better sent home, grievously injured, then remain here, sir! Dobby only wanted Harry Potter hurt enough to be sent home!”

“ _You_ made that Bludger try and kill me?”

“Not kill you, sir!” Dobby shrieked. “Never kill you! Harry Potter is not listening, Dobby only wanted to _hurt_ Harry Potter, to save your life, sir!”

Harry stared at the elf, his jaw working angrily. He couldn’t think of anything horrible enough to say, so he settled for, “if you’ve cost us the match, and me my place on the team...” He shook his head. “Dobby, I might kill you for that,” Harry said grimly, not certain if he was exaggerating or not.

Dobby smiled weakly.

“Dobby is used to death threats, sir. Dobby gets them five times a day at home.”

He blew his nose on a corner of the filthy pillowcase he wore, looking so pathetic that Harry felt his anger flare up, nearly strangling him. How could anything this wretched have caused him so much pain and trouble?

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me _why_ you want me sent home in pieces?” Harry asked, scowling darkly at the sniveling elf.

“Ah, if Harry Potter only knew!” Dobby groaned, more tears dripping onto his ragged pillowcase. “Dark deeds are planned in this place, but Harry Potter must not be here when they happen—go home, Harry Potter, go home. Harry Potter must not meddle in this, sir, ‘tis too dangerous—”

“What’s ‘this,’ Dobby?” Harry asked, still glaring. “Tell me!”

“Dobby can’t, sir, Dobby can’t, Dobby musn’t tell!” squealed the elf. “Go home, Harry Potter, go home and speak no more with your friends, sir, they are not good for Harry Potter!”

“You leave my friends out of this,” Harry said heatedly. “I don’t know what you’ve got against any of them, and if it’s more blood-nonsense about Hermione then you should know my mum was Muggle-born too, and I don’t want to hear any of that crap, if I have to smother you with my pillow to shut you up.”

“Harry Potter is noble, sir,” moaned Dobby happily. “Dobby knew he was nothing like Dobby’s family, and the young master especially; he is good, Harry Potter is good and kind, and he must save himself, he must, Harry Potter must not—”

Dobby suddenly froze, his bat ears quivering. Harry heard it, too. There were footsteps coming down the passageway outside.

“Dobby must go!” breathed the elf, terrified. Harry reached for the filthy pillowcase, determined to catch the scrawny creature before it could escape him again. There was a loud crack and Harry’s fist closed on thin air. He slumped back into bed, his eyes on the dark doorway to the hospital wing as the footsteps drew nearer.

Next moment, Dumbledore was backing into the dormitory, wearing a long woolly dressing gown and a nightcap. He was carrying one end of what looked like a statue. Professor McGonagall appeared a second later, carrying its feet. She was bent lower, because the statue’s legs were bent, as if it had been sitting on something when it was carved. Together, they heaved it onto a bed, laying the stiff figure curled on its side.

A few seconds later they were followed by Professor Snape, who was using his wand to levitate another statue. He floated that one onto the next bed over. Snape, for some reason, was still fully dressed in his customary black robes. He bent over the bodies, his sallow face very pale.

“Get Madame Pomfrey,” whispered Dumbledore, and Professor McGonagall hurried past the end of Harry’s bed out of sight. Harry lay quite still, pretending to be asleep. Farther down the ward, McLaggen grunted, but did not wake—or if he did, he pretended he hadn’t, just like Harry.

He heard urgent voices, and then Professor McGonagall swept back into view, closely followed by Madame Pomfrey, who was pulling a cardigan on over her nightdress. He heard a sharp intake of breath.

“What happened?” Madame Pomfrey whispered to Dumbledore, bending over the statue on the first bed. Snape stepped backwards out of her way.

“Another attack,” said Dumbledore. “Minerva found them sitting on the stairs.”

“They’re still wearing Gryffindor scarves, and Stimpson here was carrying chocolates,” said Professor McGonagall. “We think they were trying to sneak up here to visit McLaggen.”

“Idiots,” Snape said coldly.

Harry’s stomach gave a horrible lurch. Slowly and carefully, he raised himself a few inches so he could look at the statues on the beds. Harry didn’t know their names, but he recognized the staring face of the one turned towards him: she was one of the girls who had giggled at him before the Quidditch match. The other must be one of her friends, but all Harry could see of her was a mass of curly hair and an outstretched arm. She held a small make-up compact. The mirror was cracked. A ray of moonlight lay across the shattered surface, throwing sharp points of reflected light across the teachers’ pale faces.

“Petrified?” whispered Madame Pomfrey.

“Yes,” said Professor McGonagall. “But I shudder to think.... If Albus hadn’t been on his way downstairs for hot chocolate—who knows what they might have—”

The four of them stared down at the frozen girls. Then Snape raised an eyebrow. “What possible worse fate do you think they would have suffered?” he sneered.

Rather than snapping back harshly, McGonagall just sighed. “Petrification can be cured, Severus,” she said grimly. “Other things can’t.” Her eyes flicked to Dumbledore, whose gaze was still fixed on the girls. “Albus,” she said, “tell me this isn’t like the last time...is it?”

“But last time it was just a cat,” Madame Pomfrey protested weakly. “What would do this to two little girls?” She tried to wrench the compact away, but the girl’s hand held it fast.

“I don’t think Minerva was referring to Mrs. Norris,” Snape said darkly.

McGonagall shook her head in silence.

The Headmaster finally spoke: “Last time,” he said heavily, “a student was killed.”

Madame Pomfrey gasped. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” said Dumbledore, “that the Chamber of Secrets is indeed open again.”

Madame Pomfrey clapped a hand to her mouth. Professor McGonagall stared at Dumbledore.

“But, Albus...surely... _who?_ ”

“The question is not _who_ ,” said Dumbledore, his eyes still on the girls. “The question is, _how_...”

In the light from the broken mirror, Snape’s black eyes glittered.


	8. The Swelling Solution

Harry woke up on Sunday morning to find the dormitory blazing with winter sunlight and his head a bit stuffy, but no longer aching. He sat up quickly and looked over at the far beds, but they had been blocked from view by the high curtains that Madame Pomfrey kept around to give students privacy. McLaggen was gone as well. Seeing that Harry was awake, Pomfrey came bustling over with a breakfast tray and then began prodding his skull and peering at his eyes.

“All in order,” she said as he awkwardly tried to feed himself porridge around her ministrations. “When you’ve finished eating, you may leave.”

Harry dressed as quickly as he could and hurried off to the Slytherin Dungeon, desperate to find out what had happened during the match, and to tell his friends about the attack on the two girls.

When he walked through the secret door, Harry found a whole cluster of Slytherins gathered around the long couch in front of the fire. Draco was perched on the back of the sofa and telling some story that required sweeping gestures and lots of gasps and applause from his the watching students. The moment he noticed Harry, however, Draco hopped off the couch, scattering his audience

“Harry!” He ran over, grinning, and caught Harry’s arm. “Did you hear? How do you feel? Has anyone told you yet? Isn’t it brilliant!”

Harry laughed. “I guess Slytherin won, then?” he said.

“We certainly did,” Draco said smugly. “Come sit down, I’ll tell you all about it!”

“Okay, okay,” said Harry, letting himself be pulled to a chair. “What happened?”

Draco told the story excitedly: how after the Bludger had taken Harry out of play (and, along the way, Cormac McLaggen as well), Flint had been able to convince the reluctant Madame Hooch to allow the two teams to bring on substitute Seekers, because the match couldn’t end without the Snitch being caught, and because the Bludger had obviously been defective, preferring to chase Seekers to all other targets.

“So—so you got to fly, then?” Harry asked. His voice sounded strangely forced and hearty. If Draco had flown Seeker, and Slytherin had won...did that mean Harry would be taken off the team? He made himself smile widely, even though his heart was sinking. “Draco, that’s brilliant!”

Draco nodded, his pointed face glowing with happiness.

“Well,” he said breezily, “I did tell you that since Seekers are so commonly injured, I was bound to end up substituting for you in no time. You ought to know better than to doubt me.”

“I guess you were right,” Harry said, sighing unhappily. If only he had managed to dodge that Bludger for one more minute...

“Of course,” Draco continued, smirking awfully, “Gryffindor doesn’t _have_ a reserve Seeker, so...”

“What did they do?” Harry asked.

“You won’t believe this,” Draco assured him. His grey eyes sparkled avidly. “The Weasleys dragged their little brother up, and had _him_ fly the position.”

Harry burst out laughing. “You’re kidding!” he exclaimed.

“I’m not!” Draco said gleefully. “And he was just as bad as you’d expect!” Draco started doing an exaggerated imitation of Ron Weasley trying to find the Snitch. He pulled a dim-witted, slack-jawed expression onto his face and turned his head from side to side, wobbling like he was about to fall off his imaginary broom. Draco made desperate, snatching motions at thin air, pouting each time his hands came away empty.

Harry collapsed against the sofa’s cushions, howling with laughter, holding his aching sides.

“Oh, that’s tragic,” Harry said, when he could breathe again.

Draco nodded. “It’s not like the idiot stood a chance against me anyway,” he sneered, “but it was a bit pathetic, yeah.”

Draco and Harry shared a grin, and a chuckle over the hapless Gryffindor.

“What about the Bludger?” Harry asked. “Was it still—you know—weird?”

“Oh, well,” Draco shrugged. “It wouldn’t stop going after you, even when you’d hit the ground, so Professor Snape blasted it apart. Unfortunately that means there’s no way to figure out who jinxed it, but it’s not like we don’t all know, anyway.” He smirked. “Such a shame the Gryffindors were so inept they designed a jinx that would take _their_ Seeker out of the game, too...not that I couldn’t have handled McLaggen as easily as Weasley,” Draco hurried to point out, but Harry was no longer listening.

He shook his head. “It wasn’t the Gryffindors,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“The Bludger,” Harry said, “it wasn’t the Gryffindors who jinxed it.”

“Why do you say that?” Draco asked. “Who was it?”

“It’s this thing called a house elf,” Harry explained. “It’s a funny little creature that—”

“A house elf?” Draco interrupted, his jaw dropping open. “Are you serious?”

“You know what they are? Yeah,” Harry nodded. “It’s trying to ‘save’ me, it says, but all it does is get me into trouble. The elf is the reason I almost didn’t make it to school, it showed up in my aunt’s house and levitated a cake.” Harry grimaced. “I wish I knew what its problem was, but it just babbles senselessly and then smashes itself over the head. I think it must be mental,” he told Draco anxiously.

“It would have to be, if it was hurting a wizard,” Draco agreed, looking horrified. “House elves aren’t supposed to—I mean—they have to follow orders, they don’t...that’s just... _wrong_.”

He seemed even more shaken than Harry was. Harry shrugged. “I know,” he said. “It came to visit me last night; I think it was sorry I was hurt, even though it was its fault. I tried to ask it _why_ it was trying to not-quite-kill-me, but it just kept saying things like, ‘Dobby musn’t,’ and ‘Dobby can’t,’ and—”

“DOBBY?” Draco exclaimed.

Harry nodded. “Yeah, silly name, right?” he said.

“I—yes,” Draco agreed stiffly. He stood up. “Excuse me,” he said, “there’s something I have to do right now.”

Harry watched his friend walk away, confused. “But I still have to tell you about—”

“Later,” Draco said tersely, not even turning around. He stomped down the stairs to their dormitory, slamming the door behind him.

Harry sat back, blinking. “Huh,” he said, “that was weird.”

 

Draco didn’t emerge until it was time for lunch. He walked stiffly next to his friends, and refused to speak the whole way up to the Great Hall. Harry, Crabbe, and Goyle exchanged equally helpless, blank-faced shrugs, Harry for once knowing no more than his friends.

Everyone in the Great Hall was still discussing yesterday’s Quidditch match, although the Slytherins were the only ones happy with the outcome. Their green-and-silver table was boisterous and smug, still cheering one another and clapping the victorious Quidditch players on the back whenever one came in.

The other houses were much more subdued, especially the Gryffindors. The Gryffindor team sat huddled together at one end of the long table, their heads bowed and their shoulders hunched. One of the Weasley twins kept stabbing the table with his fork, and Harry made a mental note to give the two red-haired fourth years a very wide berth for the next few weeks. McLaggen had also been released from hospital, Harry saw, but there was a large gap of empty seats between the Seeker and his fellow teammates. Every few minutes McLaggen would turn to give the other players a dark look, while they all ignored him.

Ron Weasley was sitting at the opposite end of the Gryffindor table, as far away from the Quidditch team as he could get. His freckled face was red and he looked angry. Harry’s steps slowed as he and his friends walked past Weasley. He was speaking loudly to his friends, and Harry braced himself for a fight.

“Well I didn’t want to play anyway,” Weasley was saying angrily. “I hate Seeker. But Fred and George made me, and now my life may as well be ruined...there’s no way I can try out for the team now!”

“What position are you going to try out for?”

“Weren’t you listening, Neville?” Weasley snarled. “I can’t try out for _any_ , not now that everyone has seen me make a fool of myself. They’ll think I can’t play at all.”

“I don’t know,” Thomas shrugged, “give it a few months, everyone will forget...and if you don’t want to play Seeker in the first place, I can’t see how it would matter that you suck at it...”

“I don’t _suck_ ,” Weasley protested, “it’s just not my best position, is all.”

Thomas and Finnegan exchanged a glance that looked, to Harry, like they were trying not to laugh. He grinned, and wished that he had gotten to see Weasley make a fool of himself on his broom, too.

“Anyway,” Weasley continued crossly, “if you think I looked bad out there, you should have seen Malfoy.”

The listening Gryffindors sat up eagerly and Harry stopped to eavesdrop. If Draco hadn’t flown as well as he had claimed, then maybe Harry still had a chance of staying on the team.

“I thought the blighter flew all right,” Finnegan admitted grudgingly, “for a useless Slytherin git, that is.”

Weasley shrugged. “Yeah, maybe,” he said, “but getting him onto the broom in the first place was another matter.”

“Oh yeah?” said Thomas, sounding as eager as Harry felt.

“Yeah,” Weasley nodded. His face curled into an ugly smirk. “The little tosser was actually crying, while Hooch was working out how to get us subbed in. He was scared the Bludgers were going to try to kill him too, or whatever,” Weasley said callously, “never mind that Hooch had already produced a fresh ball to replace the one Snape blasted apart.”

“Cowardly little tosser,” Finnegan agreed. Thomas and Longbottom nodded along.

“Flint actually had to grab Malfoy by the scuff of his pasty little neck and march him out there. Practically picked him up and sat him onto his stupid Nimbus, he was shaking too badly to do it himself,” Weasley said, chortling happily. “I dunno what Flint threatened him with to make him fly, but he sniveled nearly the whole time.”

“Until he caught the Snitch,” Longbottom sighed.

Weasley’s face mottled with anger and he scowled darkly at the round-faced boy sitting next to him. “Yes,” he growled reluctantly, “until he caught the Snitch, the stupid, lousy, no good, stinking, cowardly, stuck-up, cheating, prejudiced—”

Harry hurried on his way, nearly tripping over Crabbe’s and Goyle’s heels in his haste to catch up. He glanced worriedly at Draco, but the other boy didn’t seem to have noticed Weasley’s diatribe. How he could have failed to hear the loud rant, Harry couldn’t fathom; Draco usually had ears like a bat when people were insulting him. Even Crabbe and Goyle had realized what Weasley was talking about, and Goyle kept shooting Draco questioning looks while Crabbe cracked his knuckles in preparation and scowled at Weasley over his shoulder.

Draco was frowning as well, but distractedly, and not looking anywhere near Weasley or the other Gryffindors. He was more preoccupied than Harry had ever seen him, even last year when he had spent weeks scheming how to sneak into the out-of-bounds third floor corridor.

“Hey, Draco,” Harry asked, “everything okay?”

“Fine,” Draco grunted, not listening. They found seats at the Slytherin table and all four boys helped themselves to lunch, although Draco only picked at his. He barely reacted to the accolades with which his fellow housemates greeted him, managing only a brief smile before he returned to his brooding. He didn’t stir until his eagle owl soared through the window, a small envelope clutched in its talons.

Draco refused to share the letter with anyone else, just smiled grimly while he read it and then tucked it securely inside his robes. He ate then, and joined in the others’ conversation, although his contributions to the debate over pumpkin pasties versus shepherd’s pie were distinctly more monosyllabic than usual. Whatever had been bothering him, he was still miffed about it.

All of Harry’s questions were brushed brusquely aside and eventually, he gave up asking.

 

Draco’s strange behavior was soon swept from Harry’s mind by more important things. The news that Patricia Stimpson and Siobhan Templeton had been attacked and were now lying as though dead in the hospital wing had spread through the entire school by Monday morning. The air was suddenly thick with rumor and suspicion. The first years were now moving around the castle in tight-knit groups, as though scared they would be attacked if they ventured forth alone.

Stimpson was a fourth year from Gryffindor and Templeton a third year in Hufflepuff. The Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs apparently chose to take their feelings out on the Slytherins, muttering darkly whenever they passed in the hallways, or throwing jinxes any time a teacher wasn’t around to see.

Weasley, especially, had become even more horrid than usual ever since his embarrassing defeat on the Quidditch pitch, and he could barely walk past a Slytherin without trying to kick or hex them. His foul mood couldn’t have been helped by the fact that, every time Draco spotted Weasley, he did his blank-faced imitation of Ron flailing for the Snitch, but that was too funny for Harry to want Draco to stop, even if it did make the already-palpable tension in the castle double any time Weasley was around.

Sally Birchgrove, a close friend of the two Petrified girls, kept bursting into tears and refused to go anywhere alone. Harry usually saw her attached to Cormac McLaggen’s arm. The Gryffindor Seeker looked like he was enjoying the attention, possibly just because it diverted everyone from talking about his Quidditch loss, and he could be overheard talking about how the monster was lucky it had found the girls before they made it up to the hospital wing, because he would have ended its reign of terror single-handedly.

Draco snorted, and said he hoped the Heir would make an exception and take McLaggen up on the challenge. When Harry asked what the exception would have to be for, Draco didn’t seem to hear him.

Meanwhile, hidden from the teachers, a roaring trade in talismans, amulets, and other protective devices was sweeping the school. The Slytherins, however, were all very pointedly _not_ buying any, themselves. They were doing a very good job of appearing to be amused and unconcerned, confident that the monster from the Chamber would never attack any of _them_ , or at least pretending they were confident. Harry thought he noticed a current of nervousness in his common room, though, and every now and then someone would find a purple crystal, or a pickled newt tail, or a foul-smelling vegetable fallen behind one of the couches. No one ever wanted to claim any of the talismans as their own, though; whenever one of the strange objects turned up, everyone would laugh and avoid their friends’ eyes, and throw the thing away with many a backwards glance.

Goyle almost traded his Gobstone set away to a fifth year Hufflepuff for a gilded boar’s tusk necklace before Draco stopped him, pointing out that he was being an idiot, and that as a Slytherin and a pure-blood he didn’t need anything like that. Goyle had sheepishly put his Gobstones back in his pocket and followed his friends down the hallway, but he had looked back over his shoulder at the Hufflepuff several times, and he tended to stick very close to Harry or Crabbe whenever Draco wasn’t around.

On Tuesday, Harry saw Tracy Davis sitting in the courtyard with her arm around a sobbing Ravenclaw girl, reassuring her friend that she would be fine even though she was a Muggle-born, and promising to ask some of the older Slytherins about acquiring a protective charm to keep her safe. Harry’s stomach did several strange flip-flops, and he thought about Hermione, but then resolutely put her out of his mind.

Draco had said that the Heir wouldn’t be going after people because of their blood-status, but because of their worth. He had started with Filch, and now those two girls...well, they had seemed silly and annoying, but Harry didn’t see where that made them worth attacking. But of course, Harry reminded himself, he didn’t actually know either Stimpson or Templeton. They must have done _something_ to make the Heir angry.

“Maybe the Heir just objected to their taste in Seekers,” Draco observed, and flicked a stinksap pod at Longbottom. Snape, as usual, was gracious enough to pretend he hadn’t seen, although Hermione turned around to glare. They were, as always, sharing Potions with the Gryffindors, although rarely had the two houses been less cooperative in their lessons.

“Anyway, Harry, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Draco continued. “Clearly the Heir is starting small and building up to the really _good_ targets. I can’t wait to see who he goes after next.” He grinned pointedly in Hermione’s direction and she turned back around with an angry little gasp.

Draco winked at Harry, to show he didn’t really think Hermione was going to end up on the Heir’s list. Harry smiled weakly, and tried not to worry.

 

In the second week of December Professor McGonagall came around as usual, collecting names of those who would be staying at school for Christmas. Harry signed up immediately; to his surprise, so did Draco. “Are you kidding?” he said, when Harry asked him why he didn’t want to go home for the holiday. “And risk missing it if the Heir opens the Chamber for real?” Draco shook his head, like Harry was an idiot, and told Crabbe and Goyle they should stay, as well. Not wanting to be left out of anything, the two boys quickly added their names to McGonagall’s list.

There weren’t a lot of people on the list this year. Most of the students wanted to go home to escape the risks of the Chamber of Secrets for a few weeks. Harry, however, would gladly face any monster Hogwarts might hold if it meant he didn’t have to spend the holidays with the Dursleys. Even Professor Snape would be more pleasant to have Christmas with than Harry’s Muggle relatives.

Despite having come to Harry’s rescue when Lucius Malfoy had brought him to school at the beginning of the year, Snape still tended to scowl whenever he caught Harry’s eye. Still, he had blasted apart the house elf’s Bludger before it could murder Harry, and the Monday after the Quidditch match, Snape had even gone so far as to proclaim Harry’s mediocre attempt at a Headache Draught as “entirely passable,” although he had only said as much after making Harry test a swallow (which had conveniently done wonders for his still-sore head). Harry decided to take Snape’s grudging tolerance as a good sign, and took care to flash his head of house a cheery grin every time he came into the Potions room.

Even if Snape was acting nicer, Potions still wasn’t Harry’s favorite subject. A double class was not Harry’s idea of a good way to spend a Thursday afternoon, but he made sure to smile anyway. Snape blinked coolly at Harry and turned away without a word to greet Draco and the other Slytherins. Harry sighed and followed his friends into the classroom.

Twenty cauldrons stood steaming between the wooden desks, on which stood brass scales and jars of ingredients. Snape prowled through the fumes, making clever remarks about the Gryffindors’ work while Harry and the rest of his housemates sniggered appreciatively. He might be a sour, unpleasant man, but no one could frame sarcastic observations the way Snape did.

Draco took advantage of the generous ingredient piles to flick puffer-fish eyes at Weasley every time Snape’s back was turned. Weasley glowered murderously, but knew that if he retaliated, Snape would pop him into detention faster than you could say “Slytherin rules.” Harry nudged his own pile of fish eyes closer to Draco. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to get away with throwing any of his own, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t help.

Weasley finally turned his back on Harry and Draco, resolutely ignoring the gooey eyes that stuck to the back of his shabby robes. Harry’s Swelling Solution was a little too runny, but it was hard to concentrate with Draco snickering in his ear, comparing the fish eyes to Snitches, and wondering in a loud, carrying whisper if Weasley appreciated how Draco was helping him practice for the next match. Harry thought he saw Snape smirk outright at that, although the sallow-faced Potions Master took care to never appear to be looking in Draco’s direction when he spoke.

Harry bit his lip to keep from laughing outright and bent over his potion, wondering what would be the best way to get it to thicken up properly.

Then Goyle’s potion exploded, showering the whole class. People shrieked as splashes of the Swelling Solution hit them. Draco got a faceful and his nose began to swell like a balloon; Goyle blundered around, his hands over his eyes, which had expanded to the size of a dinner plate. Harry caught a big splash on the side of his face, and his head immediately went lopsided under the weight, his glasses snapping as his face expanded. Harry’s left eye swelled shut and he scrabbled at the floor half-blind, trying to find his glasses before anyone stepped on them and made the damage worse.

His fingers were trod upon several times in all the confusion, and a number of people bumped him—Longbottom went head-over-heels when he blundered into Harry’s backside—but finally Harry’s hands closed on familiar wire frames and round lenses. He stood tiredly, groaning at the weight of his off-balance head, and raised a hand to help hold it up. His fingers tingled, from the potion drying on his cheek, but they only bloated a little, like fat sausages.

“Silence! SILENCE!” Snape roared. “Anyone who has been splashed, come here for a Deflating Draught—when I find out who did this—”

Draco hurried forward, his head drooping under the weight of a nose like a small melon. Harry grabbed the back of his friend’s robes, stumbling along behind, his one-eyed vision blurry and smarting with tears. The drink Snape handed him was cold enough to make Harry gasp, and it tasted like peppermint and motor oil. Harry gagged on the viscous liquid, but felt his face immediately start to shrink back to normal size, and he sighed with relief.

Harry watched through slowly-clearing vision as half the class lumbered up to Snape’s desk, some weighted down with arms like clubs, others unable to talk through gigantic puffed-up lips. Harry thought he saw Hermione crouching in the line, her robes bulging where she had been splashed, but when he blinked she was back to normal, comforting Longbottom as his ear shrank back to its usual size. Harry might have said something about “not being able to tell the difference,” but he was still smarting from his own swelling, his broken glasses clutched in his hand. Besides, Harry had never found teasing Longbottom to be as satisfying as picking on Weasley or Finnegan.

When everyone had taken a swig of antidote and the various swellings had subsided, Snape went over to Goyle’s cauldron and scooped out the twisted black remains of a Filibuster Firework. There was a sudden hush.

“If I ever find out who threw this,” Snape whispered, “I shall make sure that person is expelled.”

Harry looked around the room with everyone else, all of them trying to spot the guilty party. He wondered if this was the start of a plague of fireworks. First Daphne Greengrass had framed him for one in McGonagall’s Transfiguration, and now someone had set one off in Potions Class.

Deliberately causing mayhem in Snape’s Potions class was about as safe as poking a sleeping dragon in the eye. Harry was sure it had to have been a Gryffindor; no Slytherin would have dared throw a firework at Goyle, knowing that if they were spotted they would be in for a hearty pounding the moment the common room closed behind them.

Longbottom looked pale and guilty, but then, he usually looked like that when Snape glared at him. Hermione’s cheeks were flushed and she kept chewing at her lips, but Hermione wasn’t the sort to throw fireworks; she was probably just upset that someone had broken the rules. Weasley had his head bowed, shakily picking puffer-fish eyes from his robes. Lavender Brown was crying into the shoulder of one of her friends, apparently distraught over having her nose engorged. Thomas and Finnegan, both of whom had escaped being splashed, were still snickering, apparently thinking it all a great joke; they had to be innocent, because no one would laugh like that if he was worrying about Snape retaliating.

When the bell rang ten minutes later, the class that left the dungeons was very quiet and subdued. Snape glowered at each student as they passed, and not even Draco tried to meet his eyes.

“Potter,” said Snape, and Harry froze. Was he going to be blamed for _another_ firework?

Snape stepped forward, drawing his wand, his black robes swirling. Harry felt like he had been turned to ice. “P-professor...” he stammered, trying to protest his innocence, but his throat closed up at the dark look on Snape’s face. The Potions Master raised his wand and Harry’s knees wobbled, but Snape just tapped Harry’s broken glasses and sneered, “Oculus Reparo.”

Harry breathed a heavy sigh of relief and crammed the good-as-new glasses back onto his face. “Thanks, professor,” he said, and managed a weak smile.

Weasley pushed past Harry so roughly he almost knocked him into the door frame, but Harry barely noticed. He wondered if he had imagined it, or if Snape’s thin lips had actually twitched into a smile, just for a moment.

 


	9. The Dueling Club

A week later Harry, Draco, Goyle, and Crabbe were walking across the entrance hall when they saw a small knot of people gathered around the notice board, reading a piece of parchment that had just been pinned up. Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson beckoned them over, looking excited (although the dark-skinned boy made a point of pretending not to see Harry).

“Looks like they’re starting up a Dueling Club,” Zabini drawled. “The first meeting’s going to be tonight.”

“Are you going to go, Draco?” Pansy asked, fidgeting with her hair. 

“Might,” Draco replied casually, although his eyes glittered. “Could come in handy, dueling...”

“Oh,” said Zabini, “don’t you know how?” He pulled an expression of wide-eyed concern, staring at Malfoy with pity, but Harry got the feeling he wasn’t talking to Draco. Zabini’s dark eyes flicked sideways to Harry, then quickly away again. 

“Of course I know how to duel,” Draco scoffed, “don’t be an idiot. But the chance to actually _practice_...well, that’s not something I expected to often find at Hogwarts.”

Crabbe and Goyle nodded agreement, Crabbe actually chiming in with, “At least not without getting detention for it.” Both of the burly boys chuckled, and Draco and Blaise grinned.

“True enough,” said Draco, and slapped Crabbe’s back approvingly.

“Come on,” Goyle said, “let’s go eat. Dueling’s not until after dinner.”

“Right, right,” said Draco, and waved permission for Goyle and Crabbe to eagerly proceed the others into the Great Hall. Pansy attached herself to Draco’s side. “Are you going, then?” she asked insistently.

“Yes, Parkinson,” Draco said, “obviously. Were you listening or not?” He caught Harry’s gaze over the top of Pansy’s head and rolled his eyes. Harry snickered.

“Well I just wanted to make sure,” Pansy said waspishly. “There’s no need to be a prat about it.” She flounced off in a huff to join Daphne and her other friends, all of whom were giggling excitedly about something that Harry didn’t care about. He waited until Zabini drew ahead of the others, haughtily pontificating about the various dueling styles he was familiar with, thanks to his mother’s various lovers and husbands. 

Harry turned to his friends and asked, in a low voice, “Do you guys all know how to duel?”

The three of them exchanged confused looks. “Well, yeah,” said Draco, shrugging. “Doesn’t everyone?”

Harry shook his head. “Did I miss a class?” he asked worriedly.

“Oh no, they’ve never taught real dueling at Hogwarts—not in years, anyway,” Draco answered. Crabbe and Goyle nodded along. “It’s a bit too violent for Dumbledore I guess,” Draco continued, “although I think Flitwick’s actually supposed to be some kind of dueling champion...still, nothing dangerous like that for Dumbledore’s precious, innocent little students, eh?” He smirked and the other two snickered appreciatively. 

Harry smiled weakly. “Right,” he said, “well then, how did you learn...?”

“Oh—our parents taught us, of course,” Draco replied immediately, “I mean, it’s not like father and I have spent a lot of time on it or anything, it’s not like we’re _training_ _,”_ he laughed, “but one must know the basic form.”

“I don’t,” Harry said sourly. “The Dursleys aren’t exactly helpful at teaching ‘basic forms of magic,’ you know?”

“Oh, right,” said Draco, his pointed face wrinkling sympathetically, “the _Muggles._ Well they’ll probably start off with the basics at the club anyway,” he assured Harry, “because I’m sure there will be a lot of Mud—Muggle-borns there.” Draco’s smirk grew very wide. “Yeah,” he said, “I bet they’ll show up in droves.”

He laughed, and Crabbe and Goyle laughed along, although their chuckles were somewhat muffled by the food they had stuffed into their mouths. Harry grinned weakly. “Okay,” he said, “well if you’re sure...”

“Don’t worry about it,” Draco said blithely. “Remember how nervous you were about flying last year? This will probably be just as easy as that, and if not, the three of us will be there to help you out. But I wouldn’t worry,” Draco assured him, “I’m sure you’ll be a natural.”

Harry nodded, unconvinced, but he decided that the only way to know was to find out, so at eight o’clock that evening all four of them hurried back to the Great Hall. The long dining tables had vanished and a golden stage had appeared along one wall, lit by thousands of candles floating overhead. The ceiling was velvety black once more and most of the school seemed to be packed beneath it, all carrying their wands and looking excited.

“I wonder who’s going to be in charge?” Pansy Parkinson asked breathlessly. Harry hadn’t seen the dark-haired girl come in with them, but she was suddenly there, pressing between Crabbe and Goyle so that she could stand next to Draco, who yawned. “Probably Flitwick,” he said, “but he’s going to need someone to duel _with_ , if he plans to demonstrate anything.”

“I hope it’s Lockhart,” Harry said fervently, “and that Flitwick takes him apart.”

The boys laughed, but Pansy glared at Harry unhappily. 

“Oi—you’re half right,” Crabbe said, pointing up at the stage: Gilderoy Lockhart was walking on, resplendent in robes of deep plum and accompanied by none other than Snape, wearing his usual black.

“Brilliant,” Draco hissed, “that bumbling fool doesn’t stand a _chance_ _.”_

They all exchanged eager grins (except for Pansy, who was gazing up at Lockhart in adoration) and they crowded closer to the stage, Crabbe and Goyle shouldering people aside so the five of them could get up front. 

Lockhart waved an arm for silence and called, “Gather round, gather round! Can everyone see me? Can you all hear me? Excellent!

“Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little dueling club, to train you all in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I myself have done on countless occasions—for full details, see my published works.

“Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape,” said Lockhart, flashing a wide smile. “He tells me he knows a tiny bit about dueling himself and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now, I don’t want any of you youngsters to worry—you’ll still have your Potions master when I’m through with him, never fear!”

Harry felt giddy and had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Next to him, Crabbe snorted so loudly he made a Hufflepuff jump. The curly-haired boy glared at them. 

“I don’t think any of us are afraid of _that_ ,” Draco said, his slow drawl practically dripping amusement.

“Snape’s gonna murder him,” Goyle whispered cheerfully.

“We can hope,” said Harry.

“Shh!” Pansy Parkinson scowled at them all, and very pointedly turned to face the stage, treading on Harry’s foot as she did so.

Snape’s upper lip was curling. Harry wondered why Lockhart was still smiling; if Snape had been looking at _him_ like that he’d have been running as fast as he could in the opposite direction. 

Lockhart and Snape turned to face each other and bowed; at least, Lockhart did, with much twirling of his hands, whereas Snape jerked his head irritably. Then they raised their wands like swords in front of them.

“As you see, we are holding our wands in the accepted combative position,” Lockhart told the silent crowd. “On the count of three, we will cast our first spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course.”

“I don’t know about that,” Draco whispered, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if we have a new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor tomorrow...”

Harry snorted.

On the stage, Snape and Lockhart were locked in a staring contest that made Harry’s eyes water just to watch. “One—two—three—”

Both of them swung their wands above their heads and pointed them at their opponent; Snape cried: _“Expelliarmus!”_ There was a dazzling flash of scarlet light and Lockhart was blasted off his feet: He flew backward off the stage, smashed into the wall, and slid down it to sprawl on the floor.

Harry and his friends cheered. Pansy gasped. “Oh no, is he hurt?” she squealed through her fingers.

“I can hope,” said Harry and Draco together. They grinned.

Lockhart was getting unsteadily to his feet. His hat had fallen off and his wavy hair was standing on end.

“Well, there you have it!” he said, tottering back onto the platform. “That was a Disarming Charm—as you see, I’ve lost my wand—ah, thank you, Miss Brown—yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor Snape, but if you don’t mind my saying so, it was very obvious what you were about to do. If I had wanted to stop you it would have been only too easy—however, I felt it would be instructive to let them see...”

Snape was looking murderous. Possibly Lockhart had noticed, because he said, “Enough demonstrating! I’m going to come amongst you now and put you all into pairs. Professor Snape, if you’d like to help me—”

The professors moved through the crowd, matching up partners. Snape teamed Crabbe and Goyle together, which was just as well; anyone else who succeeded at hexing either boy would be pounded.

Harry moved toward Draco, but Lockhart got to him first. “Ah, Harry Potter!” he exclaimed gleefully. “Yes, I know just who to—Miss Granger, come over here, would you? Why don’t we see how you and Harry here get on, shall we?” He gave Harry a very broad wink before moving on.

Harry’s face was burning, but he counted himself lucky; he might be mortified by Lockhart’s meddling, but at least Hermione was a friend. Draco was teamed against Ron Weasley, both of whom glared furiously at one another.

“Hi,” Harry said quietly. Hermione smiled back, but kept looking away from him to see what Lockhart was doing. She bobbed on her toes nervously.

“Face your partners!” called Lockhart, back on the platform. “And bow!”

Harry bowed low, then had to cram his glasses back onto his nose when they slipped down. Hermione, her cheeks very red, frantically brushed her bushy hair out of her face.

“Wands at the ready!” shouted Lockhart. “When I count to three, cast your charms to disarm your opponents— _only_ to disarm them—we don’t want any accidents—one...two...three—”

“EXPELLIARMUS!”

Harry swung his wand high but Hermione—like usual—proved to be ahead of the rest of the class. He watched his wand go flying out of his hand.

“Oh!” Hermione exclaimed, “Harry, I’m sorry—”

“No,” Harry said, trying not to sound cross, “that’s exactly what was supposed to happen, Hermione, well done. I’ll just, um, go and get it back now, I guess...” Harry looked around. The rest of the room was in chaos, although there seemed to be very few people who had actually lost their wands, mostly among the older students.

“ _I said disarm only!”_ Lockhart shouted in alarm over the heads of the battling crowd, as Crabbe and Goyle moved in for a wrestling match and Ron Weasley slumped to the ground looking dazed. Harry gave Draco a congratulatory thumbs-up and Draco grinned back, but only until Weasley’s retaliatory spell knocked him off his feet. There was a shower of sparks and Harry ducked to avoid wildly flailing arms and legs. He couldn’t see his wand anywhere.

Hermione stood next to him, looking worried. “I’ll help you look for—oh no, Neville...” The Gryffindor girl turned away to help her unfortunate friend. Harry dodged around a wildly gyrating Hufflepuff boy. A stray fist smacked Harry on the ear and his eyes watered.

“Watch it!” Harry snapped, but the Hufflepuff kept spinning.

“Stop! Stop!” screamed Lockhart, but Snape took charge.

“ _Finite Incantatem!”_ he shouted; the Hufflepuff drooped to the floor and the sparks stopped crackling through the air. Harry righted his glasses and looked around.

A haze of greenish smoke was hovering over the scene. Pansy Parkinson and one of the Patil twins—the one in Gryffindor, Harry couldn’t remember which she was—had frozen guiltily in mid-hair-pull, and quickly moved apart. Crabbe and Goyle stood dully next to one another, Crabbe with a black eye and Goyle with a torn collar. They looked cheerful enough, albeit sulky at having been told to stop fighting. Hermione abandoned Longbottom to stand next to the Patil girl; she helped Patil tug her robes back into place and finger-comb her hair. Weasley was still lying on the floor, a nice boil starting to bloom right in the middle of his forehead. Draco struggled upright, white-faced with fury, or maybe fear—probably both. He batted out the last of the embers smoldering at his robes and hair. Harry winced and looked away.

“Dear, dear,” said Lockhart, skittering through the crowd, looking at the aftermath of the duels. “Up you go, Macmillan.... Careful there, Miss Fawcett.... Pinch it hard, it’ll stop bleeding in a second, Boot—”

“Mr. Potter,” Snape said coolly, “I believe this is yours.”

The head of Slytherin house was standing at Harry’s side, appearing so suddenly that Harry actually jumped. Snape was holding out Harry’s wand, his pale spider-like fingers pinching the slim shaft of wood by their very tips, as if the wand might be somehow unclean.

Harry took it quickly. “Thank you, Professor—”

But Snape had already turned away to haul Draco to his feet. “Do you see this?” Draco shrieked. “Do you see what he did!?” The pale boy brushed angrily at the burned patches of his robe, then squawked with outrage when he felt the singed ends of his hair. Snape’s lips pursed thinly and he darted a sharp glance at Weasley, who blanched.

“I didn’t mean to!” the Gryffindor boy yelped immediately. He rubbed his forehead and flinched. “I was just—I tried a leg-dancing jinx—don’t know how it caught on f—well it wasn’t _much_ fire, anyway...”

“Let’s see how you like it!” Draco snarled, but Snape shoved his wand down.

“That will be enough of that, Mr. Malfoy,” Snape said calmly. “If you were not paying attention, this duel has ended. And a school club is hardly the appropriate locale in which to enact revenge.” An oddly closed look flickered across Snape’s face and Weasley went even paler. “Besides,” Snape said softly, “I’m sure it was a complete accident.” He raised an eyebrow and Weasley nodded so hard he almost fell over. He had to hang onto Longbottom to stay upright.

“But look what he did to my hair!” Draco wailed.

“Enough, Malfoy.”

Draco scowled and turned his back on the Gryffindors. “What are you looking at?” he snapped at Harry, who quickly looked away. “Nothing,” Harry said, turning to watch Snape instead.

The black-clad Potions Master moved off, scowling as he banished a few more lingering after-effects of spell damage here and there. Lockhart looked around at the battered assemblage of students, his normally irrepressible grin somewhat dampened. “I think I’d better teach you how to _block_ unfriendly spells,” he said, standing flustered in the midst of the hall. He glanced at Snape, whose black eyes glinted, and looked quickly away. “Let’s have a volunteer pair—Longbottom and Finch-Fletchley, how about you—”

“A bad idea, Professor Lockhart,” said Snape, gliding over like a large and malevolent bat. “Longbottom causes devastation with the simplest spells. We’ll be sending what’s left of Finch-Fletchley up to the hospital wing in a matchbox.”

Longbottom’s round face went red. Harry snorted, because it was true.

“Well—” said Lockhart “—well—then—Weasley there, how about you instead, and—”

Lockhart turned around, and Harry knew right away who he was looking for. Ron Weasley had been unlucky enough to have been standing right next to the ostentatious professor, but Harry was even more unlucky: Lockhart would seek _him_ out on purpose.

Harry quickly stepped behind Draco and Crabbe. They were both taller than he was, and Crabbe significantly broader. Harry crossed his fingers and didn’t dare peek around their shoulders to see if Lockhart would be able to spot him.

“Excellent idea,” Snape drawled, “I was just about to suggest Mr. Malfoy.”

Lockhart frowned, and Snape smirked, clearly aware that Lockhart had only been looking at Draco because he was searching for Harry, but Lockhart said only, “ah—right, yes...yes of course...well, boys, come over here, then...” and gestured for them to stand in the middle of the hall as the crowd backed away to give them room.

Draco swaggered over to Snape’s side. Weasley stalked forward, his freckled face scrunched up in a combination of nerves and determination. Harry felt the urge to comment on the boil lingering in the middle of his freckled forehead, but bit his lip instead.

“Be careful, Ronald!” Hermione hissed, and several people tittered. Weasley’s face flushed.

The professors leaned down to speak to their respective students. Harry was standing closer to Snape and Malfoy, but Lockhart’s voice carried well enough that he could hear him anyway: “Now, Ron,” said Lockhart, “when Draco points his wand at you, you do _this.”_

He raised his own wand, attempted a complicated sort of wiggling action, and dropped it. Harry and several of his fellow Slytherins laughed. Snape smirked as Lockhart quickly picked it up, saying, “Whoops—my wand is a little overexcited—”

Snape moved closer to Draco, bent down, and whispered something in his ear that Harry couldn’t hear. Draco smirked and Harry felt his own face break into a grin. He couldn’t wait to see what their head of house had planned; it was sure to put not just Weasley in his place, but Lockhart too.

Weasley meanwhile was staring at Lockhart in disgusted horror. “What’s that supposed to do?” he demanded of the Dark Arts professor.

“Scared?” muttered Draco.

Weasley scowled and fingered his wand.

Lockhart cuffed the Gryffindor boy merrily on the shoulder. “Just do what I did, Ron!”

“Do what—drop my bloody wand?”

Snape blinked like he was thinking about taking off points for language, but Lockhart wasn’t listening. “Three—two—one—go!” he shouted.

Before Weasley could do more than twitch, Draco raised his wand and bellowed, _“Serpensortia!”_

The end of his wand exploded and Harry watched, fascinated, as a long black snake shot out of it, fell heavily onto the floor between Malfoy and Weasley, and raised itself, ready to strike. There were screams as the crowd backed swiftly away, clearing the floor. Crabbe pushed forward, grinning, and Harry edged after him; Goyle was shrinking back, looking nervously between Draco and the snake.

“Don’t move, Weasley,” said Snape lazily. He sounded like he was enjoying the sight of the obnoxious Gryffindor boy locked in a staring contest with a giant snake almost as much as Harry was. “I’ll get rid of it...”

“Allow me!” shouted Lockhart. He brandished his wand at the snake and there was a loud bang; the snake, instead of vanishing, flew ten feet into the air and fell back to the floor with a loud smack. Enraged, hissing furiously, it slithered straight toward the nearest student: Hermione Granger. The snake raised itself again, fangs exposed, poised to strike.

Harry wasn’t sure what made him do it. He wasn’t even aware of deciding to move. All he knew was that his legs were carrying him forward as though he was on casters and that he had shouted stupidly at the snake, “Leave her alone!” And miraculously—inexplicably—the snake slumped to the floor, docile as a thick, black garden hose, its eyes now on Harry. Harry felt the worry drain out of him. He knew the snake wouldn’t attack anyone now, though how he knew it, he couldn’t have explained.

Harry looked up at Hermione, grinning, expecting to see her looking relieved, or puzzled, or even grateful—but certainly not angry and scared.

“That wasn’t funny, Harry!” she said, her brown eyes brimming with tears. Before Harry could say anything, Hermione had turned and stormed out of the hall. Weasley ran after her, knocking roughly into Harry’s shoulder on his way. Harry staggered and stared.

Snape stepped forward, waved his wand, and the snake vanished in a small puff of black smoke. Snape, too, was looking at Harry in an unexpected way: It was a shrewd and calculating look, and Harry didn’t like it. He was dimly aware of an ominous muttering all around the walls. He looked for Draco, who was staring at him with his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.

Harry stepped backwards and looked around. People were edging away from him, all of them looking very pale and nervous. Harry frowned. The snake was gone; why were they still afraid?

“I believe that is enough for one lesson,” Snape was saying; his voice seemed to be coming from very far away. “You are all dismissed. Be sure to return to your common rooms before curfew, or house points _will_ be taken.”

Lockhart stepped forward, looking shaken. “I—yes—that’s right—” he stammered, but no one was listening to him anymore, not even Pansy. The students had all moved into tiny little clusters and were whispering frantically together. Several of them didn’t seem to be able to stop staring at Harry, while the rest refused to meet his eyes at all.

“It wasn’t meant to be a joke,” Harry said loudly, to no one in particular. Longbottom and the Hufflepuff boy standing next to him both gulped and went very pale. They drew back from Harry so fast that they stumbled, Longbottom wobbling into the Patil twins, who helped pick him up off the floor.

Then suddenly Draco was at Harry’s side, a hand on his arm, hustling him out of the room. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you could do that!” he hissed. His pointed face was stretched in a broad smile.

“Do what?” Harry said stupidly.

“Later,” Draco said quickly, “wait ‘til we’re back in the dungeons—then you have to tell me _everything_.”

Harry stumbled along next to his friend, feeling confused. He looked back over his shoulder, expecting to see Crabbe and Goyle following with equally-bewildered expressions, but they were both staring at Harry in awe. Harry turned forward again before he tripped over the trick step, and let Draco pull him down the hallway.

Draco waved them all through the secret stone door, and dragged Harry to the far corner of the dungeon common room, the spot farthest from the wide fireplace. A few Slytherin students—the handful who hadn’t gone to the Dueling Club, most of them sixth or seventh years—glanced over curiously, then decided they had better things to pay attention to than the secret conferences of twelve-year-olds.

“Okay,” Draco whispered, “now tell me!”

“Tell you what?” Harry said.

“You’re a Parselmouth!” Draco exclaimed. “I can’t believe it! How long have you been able to do that?”

“Do what?” said Harry, “I’m a what?”

“A Parselmouth,” Draco repeated impatiently. “You can speak to snakes!” Crabbe and Goyle nodded along eagerly.

“Oh,” said Harry, “that, yeah—I dunno, I’ve only done it twice. I set a boa constrictor on my cousin once at a zoo, that was pretty cool...”

“So why didn’t you _tell_ me?” Draco complained.

Harry shrugged. “I didn’t know it was a big deal,” he admitted. “Is it?”

“A big deal,” Draco repeated. “Yes,” he said fervently, “it is kind of a big deal! Harry, do you know how many people can speak Parseltongue?”

“Uh...lots, I guess? Lots of wizards, at least...”

“No.” Draco shook his head, and Crabbe and Goyle shook theirs as well. “Almost no one,” Draco said. “It’s really rare. I’ll bet no one in the Great Hall could even understand you.”

“What do you mean, understand me?” Harry asked, beginning to feel cold and panicky.

“Well you spoke Parseltongue,” Draco explained slowly, as if Harry was a thick as Goyle, “so it sort of just sounded like a lot of hissing—what were you telling the snake to do to Granger, anyway?”

“What do you mean?” said Harry. “You _heard_ me—”

“Yes,” Draco said, speaking even slower, “but I couldn’t _understand_ you. You spoke in Parseltongue.”

“I spoke a different language? But—I didn’t realize—how can I speak a language without knowing I can speak it?”

“I don’t know,” said Draco, “but it was brilliant.”

He and Crabbe and Goyle were all staring at Harry with identical grins. Harry felt awkward and uncomfortable, the way he felt when people went on and on about how he was the Boy Who Lived. “Well don’t be too impressed,” Harry said shortly, “I didn’t even know I could do it, so...”

But Draco’s grey eyes glittered brightly. He was so excited he forgot about fussing with his singed hair. “You know who else could speak Parseltongue?” he asked quietly.

“Er,” said Harry, “no...?”

“Salazaar Slytherin.” Draco was staring at Harry with an odd, sharp look on his pointed face, like he was seeing him for the first time.

“Oh,” said Harry.

Draco nodded slowly. “That’s why our house symbol is a serpent.”

“Oh,” Harry said again. “So that’s cool, then, I guess...”

Draco’s grin twitched. “Yes,” he said softly, “yes it is very cool...hey Harry?”

“Er,” said Harry, “yeah...?”

“There aren’t any other secrets you’d like to tell us, are there?”

“Um,” said Harry, “no, I don’t think so...”

“Mmkay,” said Draco. He was still smirking slyly. “You let me know if you change your mind.”

“Okay,” Harry said, feeling as slow as the two burly boys who were smiling at him dumbly from either side of Draco. “I’ll do that,” Harry promised.

Draco gave him a strange look, and nodded like he knew a very important secret, and sauntered away. Crabbe and Goyle stared at Harry a moment longer, then followed their leader. Harry was left standing awkwardly, certain that he had missed something important, but with no idea what it might be.

When the Slytherins who had been at the Dueling Club came trickling back in, they all stopped to stare at Harry. He felt uncomfortably like he was on display, and scrunched down low in the seat next to Draco, trying to hide behind the skinny blond boy. Harry could still feel eyes burrowing into the back of his neck, no matter how hard he tried to ignore them.

Whispers chased each other around the common room, sounding eerily like a hundred hissing snakes. Harry finally gave up and went to bed.


	10. Rumors and Roosters

By next morning, the snow that had begun in the night had turned into a blizzard so thick that even deep under the lake, the Slytherins could tell that the weather outside was miserable. Despite a thick jumper under his robes, Harry shivered during the long walk up to Defense Against the Dark Arts. 

The castle was darker than it usually was in the daytime because of the thick, swirling gray snow at every window. The Slytherins walked quickly, more because it was cold in the halls than because they were eager to see what Professor Lockhart had in store for the last DADA lesson of the term. Harry was glad of the haste, because his classmates couldn’t turn to stare at him if they were busy trying not to trip while trotting up the stairs.

The Slytherins turned the corner off the staircase to the first floor, and nearly ran into a cluster of Hufflepuffs. Harry tripped over his robes and stumbled backwards, almost knocking over a blonde girl with fat pigtails and a frightened expression. “Sorry,” he said automatically. 

“‘Sorry’?” one of the Hufflepuffs echoed. He was a tall boy with curly hair and a heavy scowl. “You’re _sorry_ , are you? Did you hear that, Ernie? Potter says he’s _sorry_.”

“Wow,” the stout boy standing next to him drawled, “it’s like he _does_ have manners after all. Who would have thought?”

Harry frowned. “Excuse me,” he said, “but what’s your problem?”

“My problem?” Ernie repeated. “Oh,” he said, “ _I_ don’t have a problem, Potter...but then again, _I’m_ not the one you set a snake after...”

“What are you _talking_ about?” Harry asked. 

“Hermione Granger,” said the curly-haired boy (his name was Justin Fletch-something, Harry remembered vaguely; he didn’t pay a lot of attention to Hufflepuffs). “You know her?”

“Of course I know her,” Harry said, “she’s my friend.”

“Funny way of showing it,” Ernie retorted, “but I guess she’s just a Muggle-born, huh? So it doesn’t much matter, does it?”

“Excuse me?” Harry said angrily. 

“Everyone knows,” the blonde girl said nervously, “we’re not stupid. You can’t hide it anymore.”

“Hide _what?_ ” Harry demanded. 

“You’re the Heir of Slytherin,” Justin announced. 

“I’m _what?_ ” Harry said. 

“You rather gave yourself away yesterday, I must say,” Ernie said pompously, “with that stunt with the snake. Did you think no one was going to notice?”

As Harry sputtered helplessly, Draco stepped forward. “Notice what, Macmillan?” he said innocently. “Potter’s not the one who conjured the snake, after all...”

“No,” Ernie agreed sourly, “that was you, Malfoy. And I’m certainly not surprised to find _you_ helping the Heir; this is just the sort of nonsense your lot goes in for, isn’t it?”

“My lot?” Draco repeated, sounding even more innocent. “What lot would that be?”

“You know perfectly well,” Ernie snarled. 

Draco smirked.

Harry stepped forward, pushing between the two fair-haired boys. “Hang on,” he said, “are you saying you think I tried to get the snake to _attack_ Hermione?”

“Obviously,” sneered Justin Fletch-something. 

“And I’m sure you thought you were funny,” Ernie continued, “but I think it was a really rubbish thing to do to something who considers herself your friend, just because she’s Muggle-born.”

“I didn’t attack Hermione!” Harry protested. “I told the snake to stop so it _wouldn’t_ hurt her!”

“Yeah, right,” Justin said. 

“It’s true!” Harry insisted angrily. 

The Hufflepuffs scoffed. Before Harry could explain further, Draco stepped forward again. “You know,” he drawled, “if Harry _is_ Slytherin’s Heir, then you’re probably the last person who should be making him angry, aren’t you Finch-Fletchley?” Draco smirked coldly. 

“Why’s that?” Harry asked his friends out of the corner of his mouth. 

“Muggle-born,” Draco replied in a carrying whisper. Justin’s face turned pink. 

“But I don’t care about that!” Harry argued. “My _mother_ was—”

“I heard you hate those Muggles you live with,” the Hufflepuff girl interrupted. “I heard they’re awful.” 

Harry couldn’t argue that. “Well, yes—” .

“So now you’re taking that out on everyone else, huh?” she cut him off again. 

“No, that isn’t what—”

“And you thought it’d be funny to scare Hermione, did you?”

Harry scowled at Justin. “No,” he said again, “I told you, that’s not what I was—”

“Save it,” Justin said shortly.

“Yes,” Ernie added, “no one wants to hear what a...what a _Parselmouth_ has to say, anyway.” 

“And no one wants to hear a Mudblood’s point of view, either,” Draco snapped back, “but that hasn’t stopped your friend talking, has it, Macmillan?”

“I beg your pardon!” Ernie exclaimed. All three Hufflepuffs looked like they were thinking about trying to make Draco eat his words. Harry heard the sound of knuckles cracking and glanced over his shoulder to see Crabbe and Goyle readying themselves for a scuffle. 

Justin Finch-Fletchley had gone very pale. “Sod off, Malfoy,” he said, and spun around on his heel. He stormed off down the hallway.

“Hey Justin, wait up—!” 

But Justin kept walking. Draco snickered. 

“Well I hope you’re proud of yourself, Malfoy,” Ernie said tartly. 

Draco shrugged, unrepentant. “You should know better than to hang around with rubbish like that anyway, Macmillan,” he sneered, “your family comes from higher stock than that.”

“A shame yours doesn’t,” Ernie snapped. He grabbed the Hufflepuff girl’s hand and they hurried away together after Finch-Fletchley. 

Draco laughed, and Crabbe and Goyle joined in. 

“So everyone thinks I’m the Heir of Slytherin, do they?” Harry said tonelessly. 

Draco replied with a very small, very sly smirk. “Well...” He spread his hands expressively.

“Great,” said Harry. “And the story is that I tried to scare Hermione by telling a giant snake to eat her?”

Draco shrugged. “Well, I could _hope_...”

“Great,” Harry snarled again. “That’s just great.” 

“I’m only teasing, Potter, calm down.”

But Harry wasn’t listening. “And you _had_ to say all that about—about Finch-Fletchley?”

Draco shrugged again. “It was funny,” he said. 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Great,” he muttered for a third time. 

Draco grinned at him. “Come on,” he said, “we’re going to be late for class.”

“I’m not going,” Harry said, and realized that he wasn’t. “I’m not in the mood to put up with Lockhart right now.” 

“It’s last class of term,” Goyle mumbled, “you should...”

“Nah,” said Harry, “sod that.” He walked away in the direction opposite the one the Hufflepuffs had taken. Harry’s friends looked at each other, shrugged, and followed their housemates down the hall to Lockhart’s classroom. 

Harry trudged down the corridor and then stomped up two flights of stairs. He felt bad skipping class, and decided to go to the library and get started on his last Potions essay instead. With most everyone else in class, Harry thought he would have the place to himself, but instead there was a familiar group of Gryffindors sitting at one of the tables in the back. Harry had no desire to talk to Ron Weasley, but he figured that now was as good a time as any to explain to Hermione that he had been _stopping_ the snake, so he walked over to them from between the high bookshelves. 

He could hear Weasley complaining from several stacks away: “I don’t see why we couldn’t have just stayed in the common room,” the ginger wizard whined. 

“I told you, Ron,” Hermione replied smartly, “just because Herbology was canceled is no reason why we should slack off.”

“Seems a good reason to me,” Weasley muttered, and Harry grinned in spite of himself. 

“Yeah.” Longbottom nodded enthusiastically. “Good reason.”

“And what about the Heir of Slytherin?” Hermione asked quietly, and Harry paused. The Gryffindor boys sobered. 

“I thought that was almost ready,” Weasley whispered back, all three Gryffindors leaning in close so they could talk privately. Harry edged a little closer so he could hear, hidden in the Invisibility section. 

Hermione nodded. “Yes,” she said, “but I’m thinking...well, I’m thinking maybe we have the wrong suspect.”

“Obviously,” Weasley snarled. “Did you miss the part where he set a giant snake on you?”

Harry scowled and stepped forward to argue the point, but then Longbottom said suddenly, “yes but it was Malfoy’s snake, not Potter’s.” Harry paused again, drawing back behind the shelf. Why was Longbottom sticking up for him?

“And Potter’s the one that told it what to do,” Weasley argued. “I’m not saying Malfoy isn’t involved too—he and Potter are thick as thieves anyway—but Potter’s the one who spoke Parseltongue, he’s got to be the Heir.”

“It...it was Snape’s spell though, wasn’t it?” Longbottom added in a whisper. “I mean...he’s the one that told Malfoy how to conjure the snake...”

“For the hundredth time, Neville, if Snape was the Heir, he’d have opened the Chamber _years_ ago,” Weasley said.

“But...”

“No one’s saying Snape may not be involved,” Hermione added mollifyingly, “it’s just unlikely that he’s the Heir himself, all right?”

“Right,” mumbled Neville. 

“Yeah,” said Weasley, “because it’s definitely Potter.”

“Are you sure?” Longbottom asked. “I mean...he did defeat You-Know-Wh-who...”

“And why d’you think You-Know-Who wanted to off Potter in the first place?”

“Oh Ron,” Hermione interrupted, rolling her eyes, “tell me you don’t believe that nonsense about Harry being a Dark Lord, and You-Know-Who trying to get rid of the competition...”

“It would explain how he survived when no one else ever did,” Weasley insisted stubbornly. 

“But...my Gran says...”

“Anyway,” Weasley cut in loudly, drowning Longbottom out, “whether he’s a Dark Lord or not, he’s certainly Slytherin’s Heir. Which is practically a Dark Lord anyway.” 

“I don’t know, Ron,” Hermione said. “I’m just not convinced...I mean, Harry’s my friend...”

Weasley scowled. “Your friend who tried to feed you to a giant snake,” he reminded her. “And look at the evidence, right? First it was Filch’s cat, then those girls who made fun of him...now you.”

Hermione frowned uncertainly. “But what have I done that would make Harry angry?” she asked.

“I dunno,” said Weasley, “I don’t know why you’re friends with that jerk in the first place. It’s weird, Hermione. Maybe he’s just trying to impress his friends, and that’s why you weren’t actually Petrified.”

“You mean because I’m Muggle-born?”

Weasley shifted uncomfortably. Harry fought the urge to shout, “my mother was Muggle-born! I don’t care!” Screaming in the library was a good way to land a detention. Madame Pince was unforgiving. 

“Well, you heard Malfoy at Hallowe’en,” Weasley mumbled.

“Which makes it far more likely that _Malfoy_ is the Heir, and not Harry,” said Hermione. 

“You’re the one that just said we had the wrong suspect!” Weasley cried.

“I said I wasn’t _sure_ ,” Hermione clarified. 

“It doesn’t really matter though, does it?” Longbottom asked nervously. “I mean, whichever one it is, the other one knows about it, right? I mean, they’re working together, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” said Weasley, “sure. So what?”

“So whichever one we talk to, he’ll know who the Heir is. Whether it’s him, or his friend. Right?”

Weasley and Hermione thought that over for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right, Neville,” Hermione said, “well done.”

“So nothing’s changed, then,” Weasley said. “Right?”

Hermione bit her lip, but nodded firmly. “Right,” she agreed. “Have you heard back from your grandmother about staying for Christmas yet, Neville?” she asked. 

Harry didn’t care about Longbottom’s holiday plans and, since the Gryffindors were done discussing anything interesting, Harry had just started walking toward them when a new group of voices made him pause again. 

“Let’s check at the back,” Ernie MacMillan’s pompous tones echoed through the stacks. “He’s got to be in here somewhere.”

“I really don’t think that was Justin we saw,” the reedy voice of the blonde girl piped up. “I’m sure he’s gone back to the basement...”

Harry had no desire to get into another confrontation with the Hufflepuffs—especially in front of Hermione—so he quietly slipped out the back of the stacks. He tiptoed past the other students and back out the door. Madame Pince looked up from the large spellbook she was polishing and Harry gave her the most innocent smile he could manage. Her eyes followed him suspiciously until he turned the corner. 

Harry trudged grumpily down the hall. He wondered if it was snowing too hard for him to go get a bit of flying in. Of course, he was skipping class, so parading around outside on his broom might not be the best idea, anyway, even if it was just Lockhart’s class...

Then Harry heard it.

“ _...kill...time to kill...”_

It was the same voice, the same cold, murderous voice he had heard outside Lockhart’s office. But that had been a dream—hadn’t it?

Harry shook his head, trying to clear it. He listened with all his might, looking around, squinting up and down the dimly lit passageway. He thought he heard a whisper and took off down the hallway, chasing it. He paused every few steps to listen, trying to hear it again—something hissed—Harry broke into a run...

Harry turned the corner so fast he ran right into something very large and solid, which knocked him backward onto the floor. 

“Oh, hello, Hagrid,” Harry said, looking up. He blinked, the spell of the strange whisper broken. It couldn’t have been real; his mind was just playing tricks, because he was so upset. Hagrid’s stolid presence brought Harry back to his senses.

Hagrid’s face was entirely hidden by a woolly, snow-covered balaclava, but it couldn’t possibly be anyone else, as he filled most of the corridor in his moleskin overcoat. A dead rooster was hanging from one of his massive, gloved hands.

“All righ’, Harry?” he said, pulling up the balaclava so he could speak. “Why aren’t yeh in class?”

“Canceled,” lied Harry, getting up. “Lockhart’s not feeling well. Emergency hair-curling or something. What’re you doing in here?”

Hagrid held up the limp rooster. 

“Second one killed this term,” he explained. “It’s either foxes or a Blood-Suckin’ Bugbear, an’ I need the Headmaster’s permission ter put a charm around the hen coop.”

He peered more closely at Harry from under his thick, snow-flecked eyebrows.

“Yeh sure yeh’re all right’? Yeh look all hot an’ bothered—”

Harry couldn’t bring himself to repeat what the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors had said, and chasing an imaginary voice just made him feel silly. 

“It’s nothing,” he said. “I’d better get going, Hagrid, it’s Charms next and I’ve got to pick up my books.”

He walked off, his mind still full of what the other students had said about him: _“You can’t hide it anymore.” “I’m sure you thought you were funny.” “We have the wrong suspect.” “They’re working together, aren’t they?” “No one wants to hear what a Parselmouth has to say.”_

“ _You’re the Heir of Slytherin.”_

Harry stamped up the stairs and turned along another corridor, which was particularly dark; the torches had been extinguished by a strong, icy draft that was blowing through a loose windowpane. He was halfway down the passage when he tripped headlong over something lying on the floor.

He turned to squint at what he’d fallen over and felt as though his stomach had dissolved.

Justin Finch-Fletchley was lying on the floor, rigid and cold, a look of shock frozen on his face, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. And that wasn’t all. Next to him was another figure, the strangest sight Harry had ever seen. 

It was Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor house ghost, no longer pearly-white and transparent, but black and smoky, floating immobile and horizontal, six inches off the floor. His head was half off and his face wore an expression of shock identical to Justin’s. 

Harry got to his feet, his breathing fast and shallow, his heart doing a kind of drum-roll against his ribs. He looked wildly up and down the deserted corridor and saw a line of spiders scuttling as fast as they could away from the bodies. The only sounds were the muffled voices of teachers from the classerooms on either side of the hall. 

He could run, and no one would ever know he had been there. But he couldn’t just leave them lying here, no matter how angry he was with Justin.... He had to get help.... Would anyone believe he hadn’t had anything to do with this?

A noise from around the corner made up Harry’s mind for him, and he dodged through the nearest door. He eased it closed as quietly as he could as the footsteps drew closer and Harry pressed his ear to the crack to listen. His own heartbeat was so loud in his ears he could barely hear the muffled voices:

“No Hannah, I’m sure Justin must have gone this way, Susan said he wasn’t in the library so—”

“I still think we should just check the common room, he probably went back to—what is that?”

Then there was a short silence punctuated by much faster footsteps, and then a shriek. “Oh no, what _is_ that? It can’t be—it’s Justin! Ernie, it’s Justin!”

“Good gracious, what’s happened? Was it Potter? Is he breathing?”

Harry held his own breath, and then nearly jumped out of his skin at a loud noise right behind him. “Why, it’s potty wee Potter!” cackled Peeves, floating upside down in the air. An upturned chair lay on the stone floor next to Harry, apparently where Peeves had just dropped it. The poltergeist grinned. “What are you hiding for, Potter? Why’s Potter lurking behind doors?”

“Shh!” said Harry. “Please, Peeves, please just be quiet—”

“What’re we looking at, wee little Potter?” Peeves pushed past Harry to peer through the door. He knocked Harry’s glasses askew as he bounced past. Harry shoved his glasses onto his face and grabbed at the poltergeist. He missed, and stumbled out after him into the hallway. 

Harry and Peeves both froze—Peeves with his heels above his face—staring at the cluster of figures. Hannah and Ernie were crouched next to Justin, both looking frantic; Nick still revolved slowly in midair. Peeve’s jaw dropped open and he stared at Nick, hardly seeming to notice the students. The poltergeist took a deep breath and screamed, “ATTACK! ATTACK! ANOTHER ATTACK! NO MORTAL OR GHOST IS SAFE! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! ATTAAAACK!”

Crash—crash—crash—door after door flew open along the corridor and people flooded out. Somehow through the confusion Hannah the Hufflepuff spotted Harry trying to edge back into the room that he and Peeves had just left. 

“It was him!” Hannah shrieked, “it was Harry Potter! The Heir of Slytherin! He’s Petrified Justin!”

Ernie Macmillan flung himself in front of the Petrified body of his friend. “Get behind me, Hannah,” he ordered pompously. “Now you listen, Potter, in case you’re getting any ideas, you should know that I’m a pure-blood, and you can trace my family back through nine generations of witches and warlocks, so you just—just stay back, and don’t hurt anyone else!”

“I—I’m not...” Harry stammered. He raised his hands and people screamed and scattered to get away from him. There was great confusion, students running everywhere, and teachers shouting for quiet. People kept standing in Nearly Headless Nick and Justin would surely have been trampled if his friends hadn’t been there to shove people away. Professor McGonagall came running, followed by her class. She used her wand to set off a loud bang, which restored silence, and ordered everyone back into their classes. 

“It was Potter, Professor!” Ernie Macmillan yelled, his face stark white, pointing his finger dramatically at Harry. “He’s the Heir of Slytherin!”

“That will do, Macmillan!” said Professor McGonagall sharply. 

“But it was him, Professor, he was just arguing with Justin a few minutes ago, and—”

“I said that will do, Miss Abbott!” McGonagall said, her voice even sharper. 

The Hufflepuffs subsided reluctantly. 

Peeves was bobbing overhead, now grinning wickedly, surveying the scene; Peeves always loved chaos. As the teachers bent over Justin and Nearly Headless Nick, examining them, Peeves broke into song:

“ _Oh, Potter, you rotter, oh, what have you done,  
You’re killing off students, you think it’s good fun—”_

“That’s enough, Peeves!” barked Professor McGonagall, and Peeves zoomed away backward, with his tongue out at Harry. 

Justin was carried up to the hospital wing by Professor Flitwick and Professor Sinistra of the Astronomy department, but nobody seemed to know what to do for Nearly Headless Nick. In the end, Professor McGonagall conjured a large fan out of thin air, which she gave to Ernie with instructions to waft Nearly Headless Nick up the stairs. This Ernie did, stone-faced, fanning Nick along like a silent black hovercraft. Hannah Abbott trudged along behind him, and they both threw dark looks at Harry over their shoulders.

This left Harry and Professor McGonagall alone together.

“This way, Potter,” she said.

“Professor,” said Harry at once, “I swear I didn’t—”

“This is out of my hands, Mr. Potter,” said Professor McGonagall curtly. 

They marched in silence around a corner and she stopped before a large and extremely ugly stone gargoyle.

“Lemon drop!” she said. This was evidently a password, because the gargoyle sprang suddenly to life and hopped aside as the wall behind him split in two. Even full of dread for what was coming, Harry couldn’t fail to be amazed. Behind the wall was a spiral staircase that was moving smoothly upward, like an escalator. As he and Professor McGonagall stepped onto it, Harry heard the wall thud closed behind them. They rose upward in circles, higher and higher, until at last, slightly dizzy, Harry saw a gleaming oak door ahead, with a brass knocker in the shape of a griffin.

He knew now where he was being taken. This must be where Dumbledore lived.


	11. Unwanted Books

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will, once again, begin with a section lifted almost directly from the book, specifically from Chapter Twelve: The Polyjuice Potion, which starts on page 205 of my copy of CoS (the American hardcover). I have made a few minor changes in this section, so you may not want to skip entirely over it. If you do skim ahead, however, as it is largely unchanged and may not be of interest to re-read, then the second section picks up right after the scene in Dumbledore’s office, on page 209.

They stepped off the stone staircase at the top, and Professor McGonagall rapped on the door. It opened silently and they entered. Professor McGonagall told Harry to wait and left him there, alone.

Harry looked around. One thing was certain: of all the rooms he had been in at Hogwarts, Dumbledore’s office was by far the most interesting. If he hadn’t been scared out of his wits that he was about to be thrown out of school, he would have been very pleased to have a chance to look around it.

It was a large and beautiful circular room, full of funny little noises. A number of curious silver instruments stood on spindle-legged tables, whirring and emitting little puffs of smoke. The walls were covered with portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses, all of whom were snoozing gently in their frames. There was also an enormous, claw-footed desk, and, sitting on a shelf behind it, a shabby, tattered wizard’s hat—the _Sorting Hat._

Harry hesitated. He cast a wary eye around the sleeping witches and wizards on the walls. He remembered the hat being talkative last year during his sorting; he wondered if the hat might be just as chatty now about past events.

He walked quickly around the desk, lifted the hat from its shelf, and lowered it slowly onto his head. It was much too large and slipped down over his eyes, just as it had done the last time he’d put it on. Harry stared at the black inside of the hat, waiting. Then a small voice said in his ear, “Bee in your bonnet, Harry Potter?”

“Er, yes,” Harry said. “I wanted to know—you’ve been at the school for a long time, right?”

“As long as there was a school,” the hat replied. It sounded amused.

“Right,” said Harry, “okay, so then, what I was wondering was, you were here fifty years ago, weren’t you?”

“As I said—”

“Okay, good. So, you must have sorted the Heir of Slytherin, yeah?”

“I sort all the students of this school,” the hat said.

“So who is it?” Harry asked. “You know, don’t you? Who it was the first time, and who it is now?”

“I see into hearts and minds, Harry Potter,” the hat said calmly. “I know the true self of all who put me on.”

“So you do know,” Harry insisted. “You have to tell me.”

The hat was silent. “Come on,” Harry shouted at it, “tell me!”

A low chuckle rang in Harry’s ears. “You are most insistent, Harry Potter, but I fear that I cannot—”

Harry didn’t wait to hear any more. He grabbed the point of the hat and yanked it off. It hung limply in his hand, grubby and faded. Harry threw it back towards its shelf, feeling furious. The hat slapped into the row of shelves and slid down to the floor in a faded pile.

“You’re useless,” he said aloud to the still and silent hat. It didn’t move. Harry backed away, glaring at it.

Then a strange, gagging noise behind him made him wheel around.

He wasn’t alone after all. Standing on a golden perch behind the door was a decrepit-looking bird that resembled a half-plucked turkey. Harry stared at it and the bird looked balefully back, making its gagging noise again. Harry thought it looked very ill. Its eyes were dull and, even as Harry watched, a couple more feathers fell out of its tail.

Harry was just thinking that all he needed was for Dumbledore’s pet bird to die while he was alone in the office with it, when the bird burst into flames.

Harry yelled in shock and backed away into the desk. He looked feverishly around in case there was a glass of water somewhere but couldn’t see one; the bird, meanwhile, had become a fireball; it gave one loud shriek and next second there was nothing but a smoldering pile of ash on the floor.

The office door opened. Dumbledore came in, looking very somber.

“Professor,” Harry gasped, “your bird—I couldn’t do anything—he just caught fire—”

To Harry’s astonishment, Dumbledore smiled.

“About time, too,” he said. “He’s been looking dreadful for days; I’ve been telling him to get a move on.”

He chuckled at the stunned look on Harry’s face.

“Fawkes is a phoenix, Harry. Phoenixes burst into flame when it is time for them to die and are reborn from the ashes. Watch him...”

Harry looked down in time to see a tiny, wrinkled, newborn bird poke its head out of the ashes. It was quite as ugly as the old one.

“It’s a shame you had to see him on a Burning Day,” said Dumbledore, seating himself behind the desk. “He’s really very handsome most of the time, wonderful red and gold plumage. Fascinating creatures, phoenixes. They can carry immensely heavy loads, their tears have healing powers, and they make highly _faithful_ pets.”

In the shock of Fawkes catching fire, Harry had forgotten what he was there for, but it all came back to him as Dumbledore settled himself in the high chair behind the desk and fixed Harry with his penetrating, light-blue stare.

Before Dumbledore could speak another word, however, the door of the office flew open with an almighty bang and Hagrid burst in, a wild look in his eyes, his balaclava perched on top of his shaggy black head and the dead rooster still swinging from his hand.

“It wasn’t Harry, Professor Dumbledore!” said Hagrid urgently. “I was talkin’ ter him _seconds_ before that kid was found, he never had time, sir—”

Dumbledore tried to say something, but Hagrid went ranting on, waving the rooster around in his agitation, sending feathers everywhere.

“—it can’t have bin him, I’ll swear it in front o’ the Minstry o’ Magic if I have to—”

“Hagrid, I—”

“—yeh’ve got the wrong boy, sir, I _know_ Harry never—”

“ _Hagrid!”_ said Dumbledore loudly. “I do _not_ think that Harry attacked those people.”

“Oh,” said Hagrid, the rooster falling limply at his side. “Right. I’ll wait outside then, Headmaster.”

And he stomped out looking embarrassed.

“You don’t think it was me, Professor?” Harry repeated hopefully as Dumbledore brushed rooster feathers off his desk.

“No, Harry, I don’t,” said Dumbledore, though his face was somber again. “But I still want to talk to you.”

Harry waited nervously while Dumbledore considered him, the tips of his long fingers together.

“I must ask you, Harry, whether there is anything you’d like to tell me,” he said gently. “Anything at all.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. He thought of speaking a language that no one else knew; and of setting the python on Dudley, and sending Snape’s snake away from Hermione. Then he thought of the Hufflepuffs’ accusations, and the Gryffindors’ suspicions. He thought, too, about what everyone was saying about him, and his growing annoyance with being somehow connected with Salazar Slytherin...

“No,” said Harry. “There isn’t anything, Professor...”

Dumbledore stared at Harry in silence. Harry felt his face growing hot, and fidgeted. He looked over at baby Fawkes in the ash pile and watched the ugly chick, just to have an excuse to look away from those penetrating eyes. Fawkes gave one last cough of smoke, then settled down to nap.

“Very well, Harry,” said Dumbledore. Harry jerked back around to look at the headmaster. “In that case, you may go,” he continued. “If you think of anything, however, know that my door is always open.”

“Thank you, professor,” said Harry, already backing towards the staircase. He turned and bolted, but hesitated at the door.

Dumbledore had risen from his desk and stooped over to fish the baby phoenix out of the pile of ashes that had been Fawkes’s former life. He grunted when he stood up, and gently deposited the ugly chick back on its golden perch. Harry thought the headmaster looked very tired.

Harry ran through the door and down the winding staircase before Dumbledore could turn around.

He trudged out of the headmaster’s office with feet that felt like lead.Harry thought about Fawkes the Phoenix bursting into fire, and wished that _he_ could do that: be finished with one life, and start over with another, where no one thought he was the Heir of Slytherin, or the Boy Who Lived, or anything except for plain old Harry Potter.

At least Dumbledore didn’t think he was the Heir. Well, Hagrid didn’t either, but Hagrid was his friend; of course he didn’t think that Harry was the Heir. Not that being Harry’s friend seemed to be stopping Hermione, but then again, she had almost been bitten by a giant snake...anyone would be rattled by those circumstances. Harry would just have to find her and explain that he had been trying to _stop_ the snake, not goad it on...

And then there was Draco, and Crabbe and Goyle, and all of Harry’s other friends in Slytherin. His housemates seemed to be convinced that Harry was the Heir. No wonder the rest of the school thought he was the one attacking people; if even his best friend believed it, of course everyone else would, too.

It was almost enough to make Harry wish he had been sorted into Gryffindor instead. At least then no one would think that he was Slytherin’s Heir.

 

 

The double attack on Justin and Nearly Headless Nick turned what had hitherto been nervousness into real panic. Curiously, it was Nearly Headless Nick’s fate that seemed to worry people most. What could possibly do that to a ghost? people asked each other; what terrible power could harm someone who was already dead? There was almost a stampede to book seats on the Hogwarts Express so that students could go home for Christmas.

“What rubbish,” Draco proclaimed, “the way everyone’s _running away..._ you’d think they had something to be _afraid_ of.”

He had to nudge Crabbe in the side to get him and Goyle to laugh; the knowing smirk Draco was wearing had been too subtle a cue. Harry, of course, knew exactly what Draco was talking about; he just didn’t think it was funny. He was glad that most of the students were leaving. He was tired of people skirting around him in the corridors, as though he was about to sprout fangs or spit poison; tired of all the muttering, pointing, and hissing as he passed.

What annoyed him the most, though, were those students who thought that Harry was the Heir, and thought that was _cool_. Most of them were Slytherins, although a tall Ravenclaw had shaken his hand the other day and told him it was a “jolly good show.” Harry had washed his hands until they wrinkled, trying to get rid of the slimy feeling that handshake had left behind.

Harry was starting to think that Draco had it wrong, and that the Heir really was just cruel. Of course the first attack, the one on Mrs. Norris, had been pretty brilliant. And the second one—those girls hadn’t seemed like very nice people, and they were friends with McLaggen too. And, true, no one had _really_ been hurt—Professor Sprout had expressed her confidence about the Mandrake crop just the other day when she was trying to talk Lockhart out of entering the greenhouse—but Harry couldn’t get the look of terror on Justin Finch-Fletchley’s frozen face out of his mind.

He wondered if Justin had been the Heir’s target, or if it had been Nearly Headless Nick. Finch-Fletchley was an annoying, arrogant little jerk, and his friend Ernie Macmillan was the most pompous boy that Harry had ever met, but he didn’t think Justin was really _bad_. Surely there were worse people the Heir could have picked to attack, first. But then again, maybe the attack had been intended for Nick all along, and the Heir had just not realized that because the ghost was ethereal, Finch-Fletchley would be caught by it, too...not that Harry knew of anyone who had a grudge against the ghost, but Nick _was_ a Gryffindor, so it wouldn’t be surprising...

All Harry knew was that he no longer thought it was quite so cool that there was some sort of avenging monster going through the castle, doling out punishments. The Heir didn’t seem to be very good at picking targets. “But we could help with that,” Draco insisted, when Harry mentioned that. “All the Heir has to do is ask...right, Harry?”

Harry shook his head. “Well, that doesn’t seem likely, does it?” he said shortly. Draco’s face fell. “Suite yourself,” he grumbled, and trudged off to play Blaise Zabini at Gobstones.

At last the term ended, and a silence deep as the snow on the grounds descended on the castle. Harry found it peaceful, rather than gloomy, and enjoyed the fact that his friends had chosen to spend Christmas at Hogwarts this year, which meant that he wouldn’t be alone for the holidays.

The Slytherins were practically the only people staying at school this break. There were only a few more of them staying than last year, but in comparison with the other houses the Slytherin table looked positively crowded. There was just a handful of Ravenclaws, even fewer Hufflepuffs (none of Finch-Fletchley’s friends among them, Harry was glad to see), and the only Gryffindors still at Hogwarts were the five Weasleys, Hermione Granger, and Neville Longbottom.

Draco made his usual snide comments about the Weasleys being too poor to have their kids home, but Harry’s answering grin was mechanical (even though the sweaters the redheads were all wearing did look stupid). Harry was too busy avoiding Hermione’s eye to laugh at his friend’s jokes.

Still no one, not even someone whose friends suspected he was the Heir of Slytherin, could fail to enjoy Christmas dinner at Hogwarts.

The Great Hall looked magnificent. Not only were there a dozen frost-covered Christmas trees and thick streamers of holly and mistletoe crisscrossing the ceiling, but enchanted snow was falling, warm and dry, from the ceiling. Dumbledore led them in a few of his favorite carols, Hagrid booming more and more loudly with every goblet of eggnog he consumed. Harry clapped along, laughing because he didn’t know the words to most of the wizarding carols; Draco nearly snorted pumpkin juice out his nose when Harry tried to sing the words from “Here We Come A-wassailing” to “The Hippogriff and the Snowdrift.”

Harry was well into his third helping of Christmas pudding, and beaming contentedly at everyone—ignoring the glares and shivers he received in turn from the other tables—when he noticed a small commotion among the Gryffindors. Hermione Granger was chivvying Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom from their seats and out of the hall.

“Doesn’t she ever stop studying?” Harry muttered to himself.

Goyle grunted distractedly and reached for the platter of trifle.

Harry, overcome by good cheer and heaps of food, jumped up. “Back in a second,” he told his friends. Neither Crabbe nor Goyle looked up from their plates. Draco’s eyes glittered brightly and a crooked smirk played across his pointed face, but Harry didn’t have time to work out what he was so keen about. “Okay,” said Draco, craning his neck around to watch Harry leave.

Harry paused at the entry to check his pockets, and make sure he had brought Hermione’s present upstairs with him. He had originally meant to hand the book to her before dinner, but the glares from the Weasleys, and the way Hermione had coldly ignored him, had made Harry change his mind. But this was Christmas, and if there was a better time to explain to someone that you hadn’t been trying to feed them to a giant snake, Harry couldn’t think when that would be.

He looked around, trying to figure out which way the Gryffindors had gone, but there was no sign of them. Harry picked a direction at random, and started down the hallway. He grimaced when he passed the spot where Mrs. Norris had been attacked, the bold letters still bright and shining on the wall, and walked faster. Filch was sure to still be at the feast with everyone else, but Harry didn’t like lingering near the scene of the first attack, especially now that everyone thought he was the perpetrator.

There was a funny, gurgling noise from the girls’ bathroom down the hall, and Harry grinned, wondering which student had overdone her feasting.

He walked on, then circled back the other way, but still couldn’t find Hermione and her friends. Harry even checked the library, but for once the cavernous hall of books was locked; even Madame Pince was at the feast.

Getting discouraged now, Harry trudged back toward the Great Hall. The Gryffindors must have gone back up to their common room, and even if Harry had known where that was, they would surely have a password, just like the Slytherins did. The weight of the book in his pocket felt very heavy.

Harry wondered if Hermione would ever talk to him again.

He was so deep in his thoughts that Harry didn’t hear the soft sound of muffled sobs until he turned the corner and almost ran right over the crying girl.

It was little Ginny Weasley, the youngest of that red-haired brood, scrunched up into a window ledge. Her freckled face was blotchy with tears and she had her hands pressed against her mouth to muffle the noise. She had propped her grubby trainers up on the ledge, her knees drawn in to her chest. She was wearing an awful pink jumper that clashed horribly with her hair.

“Er...” said Harry, and tried to back away.

The girl looked up and scrubbed her hands over her face.

“Sorry,” said Harry, “sorry, I was just looking for...have you seen Hermione?”

“Why?” the Weasley girl asked, her tears turning into a scowl.

“Not to feed her to a giant snake,” Harry said sharply, “believe it or not. I’ve actually got a Christmas present to give her,” he added. Harry fished in his pocket, pulling out the paper-wrapped book as evidence. “See?”

“Oh,” said the girl, “that’s, um, that’s nice.”

“Well,” said Harry, “yeah, so long as she doesn’t jinx me before I can give it to her, because she thinks I tried to feed her to that snake.” He shrugged with forced casualness.

Weasley gave him a tiny grin and tucked her hair back out of her splotchy face. “Right,” she said. “Everyone does, you know.”

Harry sighed. “I do know,” he said. He sat down in the alcove across from the girl. “They all think I’m the Heir of Slytherin. Everyone.” He peered at the Gryffindor sitting across from him. “So why aren’t you running away from me?”

Ginny Weasley shrugged and dropped her eyes. “I dunno,” she mumbled.

Harry nodded. “Okay,” he said. He smiled awkwardly. “Well...thanks. For not thinking I’m, you know...”

“Sure,” the girl said. “Yeah. Whatever.”

Harry hopped to his feet. “Well, if you see Hermione...”

“I’ll tell her you’re looking for her,” Weasley promised. “Not sure she’ll listen, but...” The girl shrugged.

“Thanks,” said Harry. He stooped over and picked up the thin black book that was lying on the floor in front of Ginny Weasley’s alcove. “You dropped this,” Harry said. Weasley gasped and sat up sharply, practically snatching the book from his hands when Harry handed it to her.

“Thank you,” Weasley said, her voice shrill. Harry gave another awkward smile and backed away. When he turned the corner he almost stepped on Draco who had been pressed against the wall, clearly eavesdropping.

“Not going to Petrify her, then?” Draco asked cheerfully. “She’s a Weasley, she’d definitely deserve it...”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I am _not_ the Heir of Slytherin,” he said.

“Right,” said Draco quickly, “of course you aren’t. But are you sure you don’t want to Petrify her anyway?”

Harry rolled his eyes and walked away. He heard light footsteps behind him. “I’m not the Heir!” he said loudly. “Stop following me, I’m not going to Petrify _anyone!_ ”

“Okay, that’s actually pretty smart,” Draco admitted. “Petrifying her now, with the whole school home for Christmas, would really narrow the suspect list. Probably best to wait until after the holidays, so there’s less chance of getting caught.” He nodded sagely. “Good plan. Boring, mind you,” Draco added unhappily, “but smart.”

“There’s no plan!” Harry cried. “I’m not the Heir!” He walked faster, refusing to turn around, and yelled over his shoulder, “would you just drop it already?”

“Fine,” Draco called back, “but I could help, you know!”

“Well if I run into the Heir,” Harry said, “I’ll let him know you’re available!”

“Please do!” Draco shouted.

Harry shook his head and walked off down the hallway.

He made another circuit of the castle, partly in hopes of running into Hermione and partly to see if Draco was still following him (he seemed to have gone). The only person Harry saw was Percy Weasley, no doubt patrolling for troublemakers. Harry dodged around a corner out of sight until the Gryffindor prefect had passed, and made a mental note to carry his dad’s Invisibility Cloak with him if he went wondering around over the holidays. It seemed that Prefect Weasley didn’t take the day off, even for Christmas.

Harry finally just trudged up to the Owlery and, after a few minutes spent flattering Hedwig (he gave her an extra handful of treats; it was Christmas after all), left the book with her to deliver to Hermione tomorrow at breakfast. Harry felt silly sending something by owl post to a witch who was in the same castle he was, but he didn’t know how else to get the present to Hermione.

And maybe she would like the gift enough to decide to give Harry a chance to explain.

Harry ruffled Hedwig’s feathers affectionately and started the long walk back down to his dungeon common room. Everyone—even Goyle and Crabbe—should be done eating by now, and Harry fancied a game of Exploding Snap.

He paused to peek in at the Great Hall, saw that it was indeed empty—the long tables bare and freshly scrubbed—and hurried on down the steps and into the labyrinthine maze of corridors that led to the Slytherin common room. By now, Harry could find his way through the twisting hallways blindfolded. He turned the final corner and found a surprise: a girl with long black hair was lingering in the hallway, shifting from foot to foot.

Harry had been sure that all of the Gryffindors except for Hermione, the Weasleys, and Neville Longbottom had gone home for the holiday, so what was Parvati Patil doing in the Slytherins’ dungeons? Of course, she might be the Ravenclaw Patil, but why one twin would go home and the other stay at school, Harry had no idea. Ravenclaws were very studious though, so perhaps she wanted to stay and work?

That still didn’t explain what she was doing down in the dungeons, whichever Patil twin she was. Harry greeted her quietly and the girl nearly jumped to the ceiling.

“Oh! Harry!” she said, spinning around to face him. “I mean Potter! I mean, hello! Lovely evening, isn’t it? And the feast! Yes, the feast was lovely. Oh! Happy Christmas!” She twisted her hands together, visibly flustered.

“Um,” said Harry, “yeah, happy Christmas. I didn’t know you were staying.”

“Oh! Yes!” Her cheeks flushed darkly. “Yes, I’m staying! For the holiday. I changed my mind, right at the last minute.” Her pretty face twisted into a horrified grin.

“Okay,” said Harry, “brilliant. Um...can I help you with anything?”

“What? No! Of course not!” Patil’s eyes went wide. She glanced sharply over her shoulder, as if expecting a monster to sneak up from behind. Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes.

“Okay,” said Harry. He started to edge past, and noticed Patil nervously checking the watch on her wrist.

“If you’re waiting for someone, I could go tell them you’re here,” Harry offered magnanimously.

“What?” Patil yelped. Her voice was shrill.

“If you’re meeting someone from Slytherin, I mean,” Harry explained. “I could go into the common room, and let them know you’re out here...”

“I’m not meeting anyone!” Patil said. She paled dramatically, and shook her head so hard that her sleek black hair started to frizz.

“Okay,” said Harry. This time he did roll his eyes, but the girl was too distracted to notice. She kept peering down the hallway, then checking over her shoulder, twitching constantly and peeking at her watch. “Whatever then,” said Harry, “Happy Christmas I guess.” He walked away, shaking his head. Girls were strange.

“Oh!” Patil squeaked behind him, “right, y-you too!”

“I’m not the Heir,” Harry muttered, but too quietly for her to hear. He knew there was no point trying to convince any Gryffindor—or Raveclaw—that he was innocent. It occurred to Harry that Patil might be lurking down here in order to catch the monster, and the Heir, but he dismissed the thought almost at once. No one that nervous would go hunting monsters deliberately.

Harry trudged down the corridor, wondering who the Heir could be. He knew it wasn’t him, which eliminated the top suspect of the rest of the school, but if it wasn’t him—and it wasn’t—then who actually _was_ the Heir of Slytherin?

Harry was pondering that tricky question seriously for the first time when he was nearly bowled over by two large boys sprinting up out of the dungeon. He knocked into the wall and they thundered past, one glancing back over his shoulder, white-faced and panic-stricken. Harry didn’t recognize either boy, although they did bear a certain base resemblance to Crabbe and Goyle, mainly in the way they were shaped and sized. One of them had bright red hair however and the other—the panicky one—was blond. Crabbe’s pudding-bowl hair was as brown as Goyle’s bristly stubble.

Harry lurched upright and struggled to catch his breath. He looked down the hallway, but the boys were already out of sight. He could still hear the dull thud of their running footsteps, the echoes growing gradually more distant.

It occurred to Harry, suddenly, to wonder what they had been running from. He felt cold.

His heart very loud in his chest, Harry cautiously edged down the hallway, alert for signs of lurking monsters or Petrified students. He saw nothing, though, and finally made it to the safety of the Slytherin common room. “Pure-blood,” he gasped, and stumbled through the secret door.

Harry collapsed into a chair across from Draco with a heavy sigh. “Hey,” he mumbled.

Draco nodded back distractedly. “Did you see Goyle or Crabbe on your way down here?” he asked.

Harry shook his head. “Are they missing?” He swallowed hard. “You don’t think the Heir...”

“Don’t be stupid,” Draco said automatically. “Of course the Heir wouldn’t go after them, they’re pu—they’re _Slytherins_.” He shook his head. “No, they were here a minute ago, and just took off. It was a bit weird.”

“Oh,” said Harry. He wondered if Crabbe and Goyle were what the two boys had been running away from. They certainly weren’t the people he’d want finding him if he was lurking down in the Slytherin dungeons for no good reason, especially if he was a Gryffindor. Not that he knew which house the two unfamiliar boys belonged to, but the red hair had made him think “Weasley,” instinctively.

“Weird how?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know,” Draco shrugged, “just weird. And then there’s that Peter Weasley—”

“That’s the Prefect, right?”

Draco nodded. “He’s been skulking around down here again,” he said. He smirked at Harry. “I think he’s trying to catch the Heir, probably hoping for a reward...you may need to Petrify _him_ just to keep him off your back.”

“The only person I’ve seen following me is _you_ ,” Harry pointed out sullenly. “Not that it matters if Weasley does,” he added quickly, “because I’m _not_ the Heir, so he isn’t going to catch me. And I’m not going to Petrify him.”

“Right.” Draco rolled his eyes. “Anyway, fancy some Quidditch?”

Draco’s parents had sent him—among many other gifts—an exquisite miniature Quidditch pitch, with two teams of tiny players that one could supervise in matches. It reminded Harry a bit of chess, and a bit of one of Dudley’s video games—not that Dudley did well with games that required team strategy. He usually got frustrated and threw the equipment out the nearest window.

“Okay,” said Harry, who wasn’t very good at controlling his team yet. He didn’t know a lot of technical Quidditch terms, which made it hard to shout out strategy changes mid-game, but he had fun playing even if he mostly lost. It wasn’t as good as real Quidditch, of course, but it was too cold and wet outside for flying. They didn’t even have practice right now (which Harry was glad of) because half the team was home on holiday.

Draco ran downstairs to fetch the miniature pitch. Harry snagged a pillow off the nearest couch and flopped onto the floor to wait. He wondered where Crabbe and Goyle were. A mini-match was a lot more fun with spectators, and slow as the two boys were, Crabbe and Goyle could both usually follow a Quidditch match.

Pansy Parkinson, another regular spectator, walked in through the secret door. She always cheered for Draco, at least until it looked like he was losing. Sometimes her friend Daphne Greengrass joined in to play the winner (which was almost always Draco, fortunately, because he sulked worse than Daphne if he lost) but Daphne was nowhere to be seen. Harry waved to get Pansy’s attention but she marched, stiff-backed, right past him. Pansy was carrying a half-wrapped box of sweets, which she threw violently into the nearest rubbish bin. The enraged look on her red face made Harry think better of calling her over.

Whoever had offended Pansy this time must have done a marvelous job of it, because Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen her look madder, not even that time Goyle had accidentally poured stinksap in her hair. Even Draco hadn’t been able to save Goyle from Pansy’s wrath then; she had screeched until Harry thought his eardrums were going to bleed, and Crabbe and Goyle had both fearfully avoided Parkinson for weeks.

It was almost an hour later when the two boys showed up, Goyle looking glum and Crabbe, murderous. It appeared that someone had played a Christmas prank on them: locking them in a broom closet and stealing their shoes. Harry and Draco were not the only ones to laugh uproariously, but they were the only two bold enough to keep laughing when Crabbe cracked his knuckles.

The other Slytherins carefully returned to what they had been doing, smothering their chuckles as best they could, while Harry laughed until his sides ached and Draco’s face ran with tears. Crabbe’s pudgy cheeks turned an ugly purple and his brows knitted with rage, but he just flopped into a chair and sulked in silence. He glared at Harry once, but didn’t dare say anything.

Sometimes, Harry thought, chuckling, it really paid off to be Draco Malfoy’s best friend.

 

 

The next morning Harry found himself trailing Gryffindors into the Great Hall. They were walking close together, talking quietly, and hadn’t seen him. Harry slowed down and tried to walk silently, glad that his battered trainers didn’t squeak on the stones. He wanted to avoid speaking to Hermione until _after_ she had gotten her present and, hopefully, would then be willing to hear him out.

Right now she was speaking, her voice an indignant hiss: “Well how was I supposed to know it was Padma’s hair?” Hermione glared at Weasley. “Hers is the same color as Parkinson’s!”

“Yeah,” Weasley said, “but loads longer. You’re supposed to be the smart one...”

Hermione colored. “At least we know it’s not Malfoy,” Longbottom chimed in anxiously.

“Yeah,” Weasley agreed, “but you know, Hermione...”

“Well I don’t believe him,” Hermione said primly. Her cheeks were still bright pink. “It can’t be Harry. It just _can’t_.”

“Did you listen to Neville and I at all?” Weasley asked crossly. “Malfoy _said—_ ”

“And what are you doing taking Malfoy’s word for anything, anyhow?” Hermione interrupted haughtily. “He probably figured out who you were, and lied.”

“He didn’t know who we were!” Weasley protested. Several Hufflepuffs turned to see why he was shouting. The other Gryffindors hushed him and the three turned to hurry to their table, Weasley grumbling indignantly until the noise of the Great Hall swallowed his words.

Harry shook his head, wondering how Hermione put up with her friends. He joined his at the Slytherin table, taking care to leave Crabbe and Goyle enough room for all of their plates. “Morning,” Harry said. The others mumbled greetings of their own, Goyle and Crabbe already unintelligible through thick mouthfuls of toast and bacon.

Harry was still puzzling over the Gryffindors’ odd conversation when he was interrupted by a tall, burly seventh year student dropping onto the bench across from him. “Potter, Malfoy,” Marcus Flint said, “good, you’re both here. Don’t take too long with breakfast, I want to see you both on the pitch by ten.”

“Why?” Draco asked. “It’s holidays, half the team isn’t even here.”

“Yeah,” Flint said, “but you two are. I figure that means there’s nothing stopping us from having some special Seeker practice.”

Harry felt his cheeks burn and looked down at his half-empty plate. The memory of his poor performance last month, in his first match as Slytherin’s Seeker, when Draco had had to replace him because of a jinxed Bludger, still made Harry’s stomach sink. “Okay,” he said meekly, but Draco wasn’t done protesting.

“The pitch is covered in snow,” he whined, “and what do you need to have a special practice with us for anyway, Harry and I are good.”

“True,” Flint admitted, “but Ravenclaw’s got that new Seeker, and we all saw how fast she was against Hufflepuff last month, so I’m not taking any chances—and if you want to stay on the team, neither will you.” Flint scowled at them both. Draco rolled his eyes with a heavy sigh, but jerked his head in begrudging acquiescence in counterpoint to Harry’s own hurried nod.

“Good,” said Flint, “don’t be late.”

He walked back to his seat by the other older Slytherins and Draco groaned. “We have to fly in this?” he complained.

Harry shrugged. “At least it’s not snowing _now_ ,” he pointed out. Harry looked up; the Slytherins usually came straight from their underground dormitory to the Great Hall in the mornings, so their first indication of the weather outside was the enchanted ceiling. “It’s nice and sunny today,” Harry added, “it shouldn’t be bad out.”

“It’ll be _freezing_ ,” Draco insisted, in no mood to be cheered up. He picked at his breakfast sulkily and continued to make unhappy comments about frostbite and icicles. Crabbe and Goyle nodded along mournfully.

Harry shrugged and returned to his own breakfast with determination. He needed to make sure he flew his best. After that fiasco with Dobby’s Bludger, Harry was sure that Flint had to be wondering if he wouldn’t do better having Draco play Seeker, and relegating Harry to reservist.

Harry didn’t want to play reserve.

He was distracted by a flurry of feathers. Harry watched excitedly as the owls soared in over the breakfast tables. Hedwig fluttered right over to the Gryffindors and landed in front of Hermione. Harry crossed his fingers.

The bushy-haired witch peered at the quick note Harry had scribbled yesterday, after he realized that sending the gift by owl rather than handing it over in person meant that Hermione wouldn’t know who it was from without a nametag. She read the simple Christmas wishes, then looked up at her friends. They all exchanged grim looks. Longbottom glanced nervously over his shoulder as Hermione unwrapped her present, but Weasley didn’t take his eyes off the girl and her gift.

When Hermione had the paper off she folded the wrapping into a neat little pile and set it next to her plate. No one seemed to want to touch the book. Finally Weasley picked up his knife and poked it. When nothing happened, Hermione finally picked it up gingerly, by the very tips of her fingers, and leafed through it. She must have decided that it was just an ordinary book, because she tucked it into her bag and then all three Gryffindors left the hall.

Harry’s smile died on his face. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong. Hadn’t Hermione herself said that she needed a copy of _Hogwarts, A History_ just a few weeks ago? But from the looks on the Gryffindors’ white faces, Harry might as well have given her poison—or a note saying, “I am the Heir of Slytherin, and you’re next.”


	12. Bathrooms and Blizzards

Another blizzard had blown up mid-morning, during practice, but Flint didn’t release Harry and Draco until Draco threatened to complain to both his father _and_ Professor Snape. Harry, too nervous about his status on the team, hadn’t dared to voice a single complaint himself, but he could have hugged Draco when the other boy finally bullied Flint into letting them go back inside. To Harry’s relief, Flint said nothing about moving Harry to reserve, but his squinty eyes had watched closely all morning.

Harry wasn’t sure what Flint had been able to tell from the practice: both he and Draco _were_ good fliers, and although Harry had caught the snitch a few more times than Draco had, both boys had grown less capable of snatching the tiny gold ball as the morning wore on and their fingers grew stiffer and colder. Draco had lent Harry a spare pair of fingerless Seeker’s gloves, but Harry still felt like he had icicles on his hands by the time practice ended. Harry decided that if he ever made it back to Diagon Alley, he was going to invest in a pair of those gloves.

Despite the snowdrifts, Harry and Draco took the long climb back up to the castle at a sliding, lurching run. They were already so snow-covered that even falling down couldn’t make them any colder, and they knew that the sooner they got inside, the sooner they could get warm. Their teeth were chattering too hard for them to speak, so they just shoved their frozen hands under their armpits and ran for the castle.

Both boys shivered violently as they trotted down the hallway, wincing at every draft. Snow and ice drooped from their robes and dripped from their hair, leaving clumps of melting puddles on the flagstones as they thawed. “F-f-flint’s mad,” Draco chattered, “comple-ple-pletely mental.” Harry nodded agreement, afraid he might bite his tongue if he tried to talk.

“C-c-come on,” Draco said, “this way’s f-f-faster.”

Harry hesitated, then followed his friend across the main hallway, the main staircase. Cutting in front of the Great Hall _was_ shorter than going the whole way around, but they risked getting caught dripping on the floors by Filch. This path meant they had to take the hallway in which Mrs. Norris had been attacked, and Filch still had a habit of unexpectedly popping up near the scene of the crime.

Harry trotted after Draco, panting harshly as cold lungs protested warm air, his fingers and toes burning as they heated. He stumbled, his head jerking up. Harry looked around, holding his breath, straining his ears. He shivered, not from the cold. He thought he’d heard that weird, creepy voice again, but the whisper didn’t repeat itself. Harry decided he must have imagined it, and hurried to catch up with Draco. Then he paused again, realizing that what he heard was actually someone crying.

“What are you doing?”

Draco’s sharp voice made Harry jump, so intently had he been listening to that quiet, muffled sound. “Someone’s crying,” Harry announced.

“So?” Draco asked. He was frowning, his arms still crossed tightly for warmth, and was now bouncing impatiently on his sopping boots. Little clumps of snow slipped off his shoulders with each bounce.

“So I’m going to go see what’s wrong,” Harry said.

Draco’s face puckered in confusion. “Why?” he asked.

Harry shrugged and walked slowly up the hallway, following the noise.

“Stop being an idiot,” Draco ordered. Harry heard the squelching sound of his friend moving to follow him, but didn’t turn around. He was concentrating on listening to that muffled crying, trying to figure out what door it was coming from, and he barely heard Draco complaining: “I’m cold, I’m going to go downstairs and sit by the fire until I’m thawed out. This is absurd. If you want to traipse around the castle until you turn into an icicle...”

“What if the monster attacked someone else?” Harry interrupted quietly. He paused with his hands on the wooden door, steeling himself for what he might find. “I’m going to go and see.”

“The monster’s never left anyone in any condition to _cry_ before,” Draco objected, but hurried to follow Harry through the door. Harry jerked to a sharp stop, realizing too late that he had walked into a girls’ lavatory. He tried to back up, but Draco was right behind him. He yelped when Harry’s heel came down hard on his foot, and both boys stumbled.

There was a gasp so loud it was almost a shriek. Harry looked up, his elbow smarting from where he had banged it into the doorframe, and saw the source of the crying sounds: a small red-haired girl sitting on the edge of a sink. It was Ginny Weasley, looking disheveled and tired and almost as wet as Harry.

She was also holding a book, and that she threw right at Harry’s face. He barely got his tired arms up in time. It was a flimsy book with a black cover, hardly a Bludger, but it still would have smarted if it had caught him in the eye, or nose. “Ow!” Draco yelled, probably more because of Harry’s elbows than the book.

The girl’s face had gone completely white, so that her freckles looked like scars. She clutched the sink and trembled, completely terrified, her wide brown eyes fixed on Harry, Draco, and the book. Harry wasn’t going to tell the little Gryffindor that, with his fingers still half-frozen, he would be lucky to draw his wand without dropping it, let alone cast any sort of spell. She could throw whatever she wanted; Harry couldn’t hex her back.

“Sorry,” Harry said quickly, before the girl found something else to throw. “I didn’t realize this was a bathroom. We just heard someone crying—”

“What were you weeping about, Weasley?” Draco interrupted Harry. The blond boy stood on his toes to peer around his friend. “How your parents are too poor to even give you coal for Christmas, even though you’ve been naughty?” he teased, his voice lifting in a scornful sing-song. Draco laughed and bent over, scooping the fallen book off the floor. He flipped it open and started to rifle through the pages. “Is this your diary?” Draco asked. “Let’s see what makes a Weasel cry,” he suggested gleefully.

“Don’t touch that!” Ginny Weasley shrieked. She flung herself off the sink and halfway across the bathroom, then froze, too frightened to come closer. Weasley curled her little hands into fists and stood trembling, staring at Draco with a look of murder in her watery brown eyes. “That’s mine!” she cried, her voice breaking in a screech that made Harry wince. “Give it back!”

“When I’ve had a look,” Draco said, waving the diary tauntingly at the girl.

Harry, glancing sideways at Ginny, got the distinct impression of a teakettle about to boil. The little girl had gone as red as her hair, and almost seemed to be steaming. Tears glittered in her eyes, and smeared her freckled cheeks, but she wasn’t crying now—at least not yet.

“Don’t be mean,” Harry said quietly. He tugged the book away from Draco. Harry ignored his friend’s indignant squawk, and stepped forward to hand the diary back to the girl. She darted over and snatched it from him, then drew back against the sink, clutching the book to her with both hands.

“Thank you,” Ginny whispered.

Harry colored and shrugged. He looked at a spot on the floor halfway between Ginny and Draco and muttered, “well she has four brothers who are idiots, she probably gets enough crap about her diary.”

Draco sniffed haughtily. Ginny turned pink and wrapped her arms tighter around the precious book. She sniffled loudly. Harry could feel her staring at him, and tried to ignore it. Searching for an excuse to avoid her eyes—and hoping that if the little girl could be placated, she wouldn’t report his and Draco’s intrusion into the girls’ lav to Professor McGonagall—Harry turned back towards Draco. “Give me your handkerchief,” he said, figuring that Draco usually had one. “Come on, please?”

Draco’s brows were furrowed in confusion and disapproval, but he fished in his robes and pulled out the silky green square. He passed it to Harry, who offered it quickly to the small Gryffindor.

Ginny stared up at him, her lip trembling defiantly. Suddenly her eyes brimmed over and she sat down heavily next to the sink, sobbing. Harry frantically pressed the handkerchief on the girl, then scrambled backwards away from her. Draco stared at the crying girl, a scornful grimace twisting his thin features. Harry couldn’t bring himself to look at her and turned away.

He studied the bathroom, to have something else to look at besides sobbing Ginny Weasley. It was the gloomiest, most depressing bathroom Harry had ever set foot in. The row of chipped sinks that Ginny had been sitting on was spread beneath a large, cracked, and spotted mirror. The floor was damp and reflected the dull light given off by the stubs of a few candles, burning low in their holders; the wooden doors to the stalls were flaking and scratched and one of them was dangling off its hinges.

The stall at the far end was closed, but a head peeked out of it anyway: a bespectacled, translucent head with lank pigtails. The rest of the ghost—a plump girl in Hogwarts robes—followed the head, floating out into the bathroom proper to glare at Harry and Draco. “What are you doing in here?” she demanded. “This is a girls’ toilet.”

“We, er, we know we—we didn’t mean—” Harry stammered, looking around the bathroom guiltily, and trying not to catch Ginny Weasley’s tear-filled eyes.

“We heard someone crying,” Draco interrupted, “so we came to see who it was. To make sure she was _okay_.” Draco’s eyes were very wide, his voice dripping with sincerity. Harry winced, but the lie fooled the ghost. Her cross expression instantly melted and she bobbed over to Draco.

“Ooh,” she said, “that is _so_ sweet.” The ghost fluttered her ethereal eyelashes. “I’m Myrtle,” she said coyly, “what’s _your_ name?”

Harry grimaced, but his friend just smirked in victory. “Draco Malfoy,” he introduced himself, then waved a hand in Harry’s direction. “And this,” he said proudly, “is Harry _Potter_.”

Myrtle blinked slowly at Harry. “Hello,” he mumbled.

“We know we shouldn’t be in here,” Draco continued smoothly, “that it’s against the rules, of course. But what are rules, compared to _human compassion?”_

Myrtle’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, _yes_ ,” she breathed, “yes, of _course_. How _noble_.”

Harry turned around so the ghost wouldn’t see him gagging. There was a funny, strangled-sounding snort from Ginny Weasley, and Harry looked over anxiously to make sure she wasn’t going to start crying again. Her cheeks were wet, but the tears had stopped, and now she stared at Draco with a strange expression that Harry couldn’t quite figure out. Harry wasn’t sure if it was disgust, or respect, or just amusement. Maybe all three.

She noticed Harry looking at her, and they both had to quickly look away and stuff their sleeves in their mouths to smother giggles. Draco was still flattering the ghost. “No,” he continued, in response to something Myrtle had said, “you’re definitely the nicest dead person I’ve ever met.” Myrtle’s transparent cheeks had gone dark, and she was positively cooing at him now. “That’s _so_ kind of you, Draco,” she simpered. “Do you _really_ think so?”

“Well,” Harry said without thinking, “our house ghost is the Bloody Baron, so really anyone would seem nice in comparison to _him_.”

Myrtle gave a long wail and dove away through the nearest toilet. A gout of water spurted up and swamped Harry. He sputtered and tried to wipe his glasses clean with his sopping robes. Draco and Ginny both laughed at him. “Oh well done,” Draco chuckled, “that was very slick. You’ve definitely made a friend.”

“Shut-up,” Harry retorted, which only made the other two laugh harder. He squeezed his robes out, to little effect, sighed, and gave up. He had been wet and cold already, from the melting snow. This really didn’t feel any different, except that he was embarrassed now, too.

“Anyway,” Harry asked the red-haired girl shortly, “are you okay?”

Ginny Weasley stopped giggling and nodded.

“Because we should probably get out of here before someone else catches us in a girls’ lav,” Harry explained. He stared at the small Gryffindor, then asked hesitantly, “you sure you’ll be all right?”

Ginny nodded again. She clutched her diary like it was a life preserver. “Thank you,” she whispered. She held out the damp handkerchief, offering it back to its owner. Draco recoiled with a grimace of disgust.

“Just keep it,” Harry advised the girl. Draco shuddered delicately. “Please do,” he murmured. “Eugh. Like I’d want it back now that it’s all soppy with blood-traitor tears...” Harry elbowed his friend in the side and Draco shut-up.

“Anyway,” Harry said loudly, “um...see you later, I guess.” He and Ginny exchanged awkward, forced smiles while Draco sneered unhappily. The two Slytherin boys backed out of the bathroom, leaving the little girl alone with her precious diary and the grumpy ghost.

“Wow,” said Draco, “I’m _so_ glad you investigated that. It was _really_ worthwhile.”

“Shut-up,” said Harry.

“No, really,” Draco continued. “Clearly she knows _all about_ Slytherin’s Heir. Why I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s got his whole life story written up in that stupid diary of hers.”

“Shut-up,” Harry said again. “Besides, I thought you were convinced that _I’m_ the Heir...”

“True enough,” Draco agreed readily. “Because you are, of course.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Let’s just get cleaned up, and find a fire the size of Hagrid to sit by. I _still_ can’t feel my feet.”

 

The worst part about holidays at school, Harry decided, was that one was still expected to do homework. It was not, Harry had to admit, a lot of homework, but he still thought that it was very bad form of their teachers to have assigned them any at all. What good was a holiday break, when part of it had to be spent in the library, writing essays and looking up books?

Harry chewed on the end of his quill, then made a face. He pulled feathers out of his mouth and looked around furtively. At least no one was there to laugh at him. Goyle and Crabbe had gotten bored over hour ago, and with Draco’s distracted permission, had bolted for freedom. At the time Harry thought they were stupid for giving up so easily, as they would only have to come back later to finish the work, but he was starting to change his mind. Draco had vanished somewhere in the backstacks, and Harry’s Transfiguration essay was going nowhere fast.

He scrubbed at his eyes and bent closer to his parchment, squinting. Had he really just written, “the difficulty with transfiguring metal into organics is _Nimbus_ -based”? Harry sighed and reached for his rub-outer.

“Ah-ha!”

A heavy book slammed down onto the table, and Harry jumped. His ink bottle toppled over, a black puddle splattering across his half-finished essay. Harry swore and tried frantically to mop up the ink, even though he knew the essay wasn’t really worth the effort of saving.

Draco plopped down into the chair across from Harry. He was beaming smugly, his pointed face bright with triumph. “You’re related to the Peverells,” he announced.

Harry looked up. He blinked. “Okay,” he said. “The who?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I traced your father’s line back to the Peverell family,” he explained. “They were one of the oldest, most respected families in Wizarding England.”

“What happened to them?” Harry asked, wondering where this was going.

“What usually happens,” Draco said impatiently, “they married into other families, and the name died out. No one to carry it on. But the Potters are descended from them, and so are you.”

“Okay,” said Harry. “What does that mean?”

“That you’re related to one of the oldest, most respected families in Wizarding England? Oh, clearly not much...” Draco smirked. “But the question is, who were _they_ related to?”

Harry’s heart sank. “This is about the Heir of Slytherin, isn’t it?” he asked.

Draco nodded.

“I’m not the Heir,” Harry insisted, once again. “It doesn’t matter if I’m related to the Peverells, and they’re related to Salazar Slytherin, I’m still not the one opening the Chamber of Secrets.”

“Don’t be dense,” Draco retorted, rolling his eyes. “There’s no way to say for _sure_ who’s descended from Slytherin, he lived thousands of years ago. No one can reliably trace their lineage back _that_ far—not even Malfoys,” he admitted. “And if we _knew_ who Slytherin’s descendents were, then there would be no question about the Heir’s identity, would there?”

“I guess not,” Harry said reluctantly.

“Right,” said Draco, “but the Peverells are close enough for me. They’re an _old_ , old family. There’s every reason to think they could be related to Salazar Slytherin...and evidence of that sitting right in front of me,” he said slyly.

Harry dragged the book over to himself for an excuse to avoid looking at his friend. It was thick and leather-bound, so old that it was crumbling, its pages yellow and musty. The fancy writing within was faded and smeared by time, and Harry could barely make out the words, but the page he turned to seemed to show a family tree. If Harry squinted, he could see a lot of words that started with _P_ , and might have been _Peverell_ , or _Potter_.

He pushed the book away.

“But this doesn’t prove anything,” Harry insisted. “You said yourself that there’s no evidence the Peverells were related to Slytherin.”

“Of course not,” Draco snorted. “Only nutters like the Gaunts are fool enough to yammer on about being Slytherin’s descendents for sure, and think that anyone believes them.”

“The Gaunts?” Harry echoed. “Who are they?”

“I don’t know, I think they’re all dead.” Draco flipped a few pages back and forth. Harry winced as the old paper flaked under the casual treatment. “I’ve heard father complaining about them,” Draco continued, shrugging. “He says they give blood-purity a bad name, or something.”

“What,” said Harry, suddenly no longer really listening, “you mean like the Weasleys?”

“Oh, no,” Draco said firmly, “nothing like them. Not blood-traitors, just—nutters. I think,” he added conspiratorially, “it’s inbreeding.”

“Inbreeding,” Harry repeated. He felt his face scrunch up in disgust.

“Exactly,” Draco smirked. “Like I said: nutters.”

“Eugh,” said Harry.

 

The holidays that year were very cold and, for Harry, long and miserable. Flint dragged Harry and Draco out to the Quidditch pitch nearly every other day, despite the icy conditions and Draco’s endless complaints. He never followed through on his threats to get Snape or his father involved, although there were times when Harry—frozen solid and shivering—wished he would. Either Flint knew Draco was bluffing, or else he truly wasn’t scared of either their Head of House _or_ Lucius Malfoy, because Flint kept them practicing all break.

It was a relief when the rest of the school arrived back from their Christmas holidays, and with them the rest of the team. Even homework from McGonagall was better than freezing half-to-death on their Nimbuses, and Flint was forced to restrict himself to once-a-week practices again as everyone became busy with their schoolwork.

Hermione Granger still wasn’t talking to Harry, although instead of glaring at him she now just looked confused whenever he was around. The little Gryffindor boy, Colin Creevey, still flinched any time he saw Harry in the hallways—as did most people who weren’t in Slytherin house—but the red-haired Weasley girl had started to give Harry the occasional shy smile. Harry decided to count that as a victory, even though the rest of the school remained convinced that he was the Heir of Slytherin—including Draco.

Now that the rest of the students were back at school, Draco seemed to be anticipating an attack any day. Harry couldn’t go halfway down a hallway without hearing quick footsteps dogging his heels, and every time he turned around, Draco was there grinning at him with a suggestion for a target, an offer to help, or just an assurance that Harry shouldn’t give up.

Harry got more and more exasperated with his friend every day, especially when Draco shared the spying duties out between Crabbe and Goyle as well. Harry couldn’t go anywhere without being watched, if not by the rest of the school, then by his best friends.

Even visits to Hagrid didn’t help. Not only would Draco follow him down there (making everyone uncomfortable) but Hagrid was worried about something, and too distracted to talk to Harry about it, especially in front of his pale friend. “Last time you were this skittish you had a secret dragon in your house,” Harry pointed out.

Hagrid jumped and broke the mug he had been holding. “Well there’s no dragon now,” he said shortly. His eyes kept flickering toward the Forbidden Forest as he swept up the broken crockery.

“Do you know something about Slytherin’s monster, then?” Draco asked dubiously.

“Don’ know nothin’ abou’ tha’,” Hagrid said with finality. He and Draco gave each other narrow, baleful glares until Harry changed the subject by asking Hagrid about Manticores: large, fearsome monsters that Harry had found a reference to in one of his textbooks.

Hagrid waxed sentimental on the subject for several minutes, and by the time the Slytherin boys trudged back up to the castle, even Draco had to admit that as far as monsters went, Hagrid was pretty knowledgeable. “Although,” Draco pointed out petulantly, “he was clearly dropped on his head a lot as a child. Anyone who would call a Manticore _misunderstood_ has to be brain-damaged.”

Harry tried to argue the point, but he knew he hadn’t done a very good job of it. It was hard to sound convincing when he secretly agreed with Draco, at least as far as Manticores were concerned.

 

Between his friends following him and everyone else running away from him, Harry didn’t enjoy the weeks following the holidays very much. No matter how many times he cried, “I’m not the Heir of Slytherin!” no one believed him. In Herbology, the Ravenclaws stared at him like he was some kind of strange new lifeform they wanted to study, preferably via dissection. In Potions, the Gryffindors glared menacingly, although fortunately with Snape around, none of them dared do anything more than mutter. In Astronomy, the Hufflepuffs all watched Harry with cold suspicion, and walked around in nervous groups. Ernie MacMillan and Hannah Abbot, especially, took care to scowl at Harry, grumbling together whenever he stood within earshot. Peeves wasn’t helping matters; he kept popping up in the crowded corridors singing “Oh Potter, you rotter...” now with a dance routine to match.

Hermione Granger said nothing to Harry at all. Sometimes he noticed her looking at him in Potions, but she was always flanked by her friends Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom. They followed her everywhere like two alternately belligerent (Weasley) or anxious (Longbottom) bodyguards. Harry thought about trying to talk to her once or twice (particularly when McGonagall assigned them twenty inches on teacups due Thursday), but every time he got up the nerve to walk over and say hello, Weasley’s glare made him change his mind.

“You’re better off without her, Harry, honestly,” Draco assured him. “I’m not saying she isn’t smart,” he allowed magnanimously, “but you don’t _need_ her. It’s not like she’s some sort of genius or anything, and there are plenty of _other_ people who are just as clever you could get help from instead. Here, let me see what you’ve written so far,” Draco demanded.

Harry bit his tongue and handed his essay over without a word. He felt like a heel, playing on his friend’s jealously of Hermione’s good marks, but it was always easy to con Draco into doing Harry’s work if he thought it would show-up the Gryffindor girl. Crabbe and Goyle sulked enviously as Draco re-wrote Harry’s concluding paragraphs on the proper Transfiguration of teacups.

Harry managed to restrain his gloating to a single, smug grin.

 

The morning of the Slytherins’ Quidditch match against Ravenclaw dawned just as cold as the rest of the month had been. Harry looked up at the ceiling of the Great Hall and groaned when he saw snowflakes spiraling down. Draco grinned smugly and settled the pile of warm clothes that he would be wearing onto the bench next to him. Harry thought about his own thin team robes, and shivered already despite his thick jumper.

“Pretty decent weather,” Draco said blithely. “Nice and bright, relatively clear...a shame it’s so cold, though.”

Harry tried to kick him under the table but missed and stubbed a toe on the leg of the bench instead. He yelped and rubbed his foot.

Goyle and Crabbe looked around dully, trying to find what had attacked Harry, then gave up and returned to their enormous breakfasts. The two boys had ostensibly been reprising their bodyguard duties, keeping Slytherin’s Seeker safe from pre-match attacks, but no one had tried to bother him this time. Harry suspected it was because everyone was too scared that he would Petrify them if they tried.

When Harry and the rest of the Slytherin team stepped out onto the Quidditch pitch, the cheers that greeted them were no greater than usual, but the boos and hisses from the other houses were more subdued. It seemed that few students were willing to risk booing for a team whose Seeker was rumored to have a monster at his beck-and-call. When Harry mounted his broom, he could barely hear the jeers and jibes over the sound of his housemates cheering for him. It looked like being suspected to be the Heir of Slytherin finally had an upside.

Harry was shivering, but when Madame Hooch blew her whistle, he soared up into the air with a big grin on his face. It was freezing, but there was almost no wind, and the snow was so light it barely dusted Harry’s glasses. He just hoped they could finish the match before it started coming down in earnest. And at least flying, he was doing something, not just sitting in the stands and shivering.

This might not be so bad, Harry decided.

He winced the first time a Bludger came pelting towards him, but it didn’t change course to follow, and Harry sagged with relief. Maybe the house elf had gotten the message after all, and decided to leave Harry alone. He crossed his cold fingers and looked around for the Snitch.

Harry was a little confused when the Ravenclaw Seeker flew over to mark him. Harry was sure Flint had said that Ravenclaw’s Seeker was a girl, but here was a tall boy with messy brown hair and glasses almost as thick as Harry’s own. The boy grinned friendlily enough for being on the opposing team, and Harry smiled back automatically. Then he had to roll out of the way quickly because one of the Ravenclaw Beaters came up sharply behind the Seeker and Harry barely saw him in time to dodge the accompanying Bludger.

The Beater hovered next to the Ravenclaw Seeker for a moment. Harry couldn’t hear what they said, but the Seeker suddenly goggled at Harry with wide eyes, and then both flew away together.

The rest of the Ravenclaws were giving Harry a wide berth. Harry scowled, but wondered if there was any way he could use their fear of him to benefit his team. He couldn’t very well go hover in front of the goal hoops—he wouldn’t be able to catch the Snitch like that—but maybe he could fluster the Chasers if he darted over now and again when they were trying to score...

“—and that’s Davies with the Quaffle, Davies heading towards goal, looks like Bletchley’s busy having a tea party with his Captain, so it should be an easy score for Dav—oooh!”

Harry turned to see what had upset the commentator—Lee Jordan of Gryffindor, once again—and saw a cluster of blue and green robes over by the goal hoops. Jordan was swearing foully and McGonagall had to yank the microphone away from him. It sounded like Bole, seeing his Keeper preoccupied, had taken it upon himself to stop the Ravenclaw Chasers from scoring and, in lieu of having access to a Bludger, had just thrown himself into Davies.

“—blatching that’s what it was, the worst case of blatching I’ve ever seen, blatching and blurting at the same bloody time, come on ref, you can’t allow such bloody obvious cheating to—”

Jordan lost the microphone again. Harry snickered.

There was a brief time-out while Madame Hooch and some of the Ravenclaws fished Davies out of the goal hoop. Harry idly scanned the skies, watching for that telltale flash of gold. Davies crawled back onto his broom and insisted on taking the penalty shot that Hooch awarded to Ravenclaw. Harry groaned along with the rest of Slytherin when Flint missed the Quaffle by an inch, letting the red ball soar through the far hoop.

Harry didn’t have time to dwell on the goal, though. That brought Slytherin and Ravenclaw to a 40-40 point tie, which meant that the most important thing right now was keeping the Ravenclaw Seeker from finding the Snitch.

Fortunately Flint knew that too, and he sent Derrick and Bole to harry the hapless Seeker. Harry snickered as the Ravenclaw boy yelped and tried to dodge the vicious Bludger assault. It was only seconds before Ravenclaw’s Beaters saw what was going on and raced over to save their Seeker, but he still looked rattled. Harry grinned.

He saw the Ravenclaw Chasers move into a wedge formation, passing the Quaffle back and forth between them as they flew down the pitch. The Slytherin Chasers couldn’t break through to steal it back, and their Beaters were busy keeping the Ravenclaw Keeper pinned between them—which was stupid, Harry thought angrily, because it would probably get Slytherin another penalty, and it left their Chasers unprotected.

Harry dove for the center of the Ravenclaws. One of them saw him coming and actually screamed, dropping the Quaffle. Montague dove and caught it and shot off for the Ravenclaw goal while everyone else was still recovering from Harry’s sudden appearance. He shot off to the far side of the pitch, grinning in victory when he heard the cheer as Montague scored.

“—and that was Potter, clearly making use of fear-tactics to intimidate the Ravenclaw chasers,” Jordan snarled into the microphone. “I just hope he knows that Petrifying the opposing team would obviously be a foul, covered under the general magic clauses, and his alleged ancestry won’t—”

“JORDAN!”

McGonagall had taken the microphone away again. Harry did a few laps around the Ravenclaw goal hoops to relieve his annoyance. He reveled in the speed of his Nimbus 2001, so much faster than anything else on the pitch. One of the Ravenclaw Beaters mustered up enough guts to wing a Bludger at Harry, but Harry swerved out of the way so fast he barely even noticed.

A few minutes later Pucey was called for cobbing and, after that, Montague for skinning. Ravenclaw made both their penalty shots, but that still left Slytherin with a 90-60 point lead. Harry started looking for the Snitch in earnest. He knew he wasn’t supposed to catch it until Slytherin was several points up—or if it looked like they were losing—but he still wanted to know where it was, in case Raveclaw suddenly started scoring.

Then the Ravenclaw Seeker went into a steep dive.

“And it looks like Ravenclaw has spotted the snitch!” Jordan yelled into his microphone. “That’s Hilliard the Ravenclaw’s reserve Seeker, as Chang had to sit out today’s match, but it looks like he’s a good substitute because there’s no way the Slytherin Seeker is going to catch up to him now, no matter who he may be related to—”

But Harry had already taken off. He bent low over the shiny dark handle of his Nimbus. His eyes streamed in the cold air, even with his glasses to protect them. Harry urged his broom faster—faster—he was closing on Hilliard—faster—!

“Out of the way!” Harry bellowed.

Hilliard turned around and yelped. Harry whipped past him, a green blur on a long stick. He reached out and closed his numb fingers around the Golden Snitch. Tiny wings struggled but Harry didn’t let go. The metal ball was freezing cold, but Harry felt as warm as if he had been lit on fire.

He had caught the Snitch. Slytherin had won.

The cheers of his housemates still echoed in Harry’s ears an hour later. He was alone in the changing room, his teammates having already gone up to the celebration in their dungeon. Harry was going to join them in a minute, but he wanted to finish cleaning his broomstick first.

He hadn’t stopped grinning since his fingers closed around the icy Snitch.

Harry shivered now. It was getting cold in here, and as the elation of the match waned, Harry noticed. He gave his Nimbus one last polish, then took the beloved broom out to the shed where the rest of the team kept theirs. Harry turned away reluctantly and began the cold slog up to the castle. At least the snow was still light, but a sharp wind had blown up just as the match ended, and now Harry squinted behind his glasses and bent his head low.

He was halfway to the school when fingers closed around his arm. Harry almost jumped out of his own skin. Then he recognized Draco, and laughed at his own skittishness.

“Where have you been?” Draco demanded. “Never mind, let’s just get down to the common room, you’re missing the party.”

“Sorry,” Harry said. “I wanted to get the snow off my broom—” But Draco wasn’t listening.

Harry let his friend drag him up to the castle.

They had to fight against the ferocious wind to pull the front doors open, and stumbled through in a gust of blowing robes and swirling snow. They brushed themselves off and crossed the main staircase towards the dungeons. The school looked empty, everyone apparently off in their common rooms either celebrating or lamenting the outcome of the Quidditch match.

Harry and Draco skidded in the puddles of melting snow that led away from the door. “Looks like Filch has some mopping to do,” Draco observed nastily. Harry laughed.

They both paused when they heard footsteps, and drew closer together, looking around for an escape route. It wasn’t Filch who came around the corner though, but little Ginny Weasley.

Harry, still flush with his Quidditch victory, waved cheerfully to the Gryffindor girl. She walked past them without answering, her face pale and blank, as if she hadn’t seen Harry or Draco at all. Ginny ducked inside the bathroom they had found her crying in, her diary clutched to her chest. Harry wondered if her brothers were teasing her again, and thought fleetingly about checking to make sure that she was okay, but there was a party going on in his common room right now, and it was partially in his honor.

He decided that crying Gryffindors weren’t his problem, and hurried downstairs after Draco.


	13. The Midnight Duel

Harry and his friends walked into breakfast on Sunday morning to find the other students strangely tense. A sudden hush fell over the room, spreading ahead of Harry as he walked. He felt like everyone was watching him, and tried to duck down between Crabbe and Goyle to hide. “What’s going on?” he whispered to Draco.

The pale boy shrugged. “No idea,” Draco said. “Maybe they’re cross about yesterday’s match.”

“Maybe,” said Harry, unconvinced. He looked over his shoulder. Half the students at the Ravenclaw table turned around, avoiding Harry’s eye. He made a face. “I think it may be something else, though,” he muttered.

Harry and his friends chose seats at the Slytherin table, Crabbe and Goyle reaching for eggs and sausages before they had even sat down. Harry poured himself a glass of pumpkin juice, then choked on it when a girl nearly jumped into his face.

“Did you hear?”

Pansy Parkinson dropped into the seat across from Harry. “Did you hear about Dean Thomas?” she asked again. She looked around at the boys, her dark eyes bright with glee.

Harry and Draco exchanged a bemused look. They faced Pansy again and shook their heads. Crabbe and Goyle, sitting on either side, ignored everyone else in favor of breakfast.

“What about Dean Thomas?” Draco asked, his voice bored.

“He’s been Petrified!”

Harry gaped at the grinning girl. “You’re kidding!” he said.

Pansy gave Harry a withering look. “Like you don’t already know,” she said.

Harry glared. Pansy chose to ignore him.

“Anyway,” she told Draco, “the attack happened last night. And apparently, this time, someone saw it!”

Draco and Harry both gasped. “Who?” Harry asked.

“It was Seamus Finnegan,” Pansy gushed. “What I heard is, he and Thomas sneaked up to the Astronomy Tower last night after curfew. Finnegan won some sort of Zonko’s telescope or something off of a Gryffindor fourth year, betting on the Quidditch match, and they wanted to try it out. Thomas was looking through it and suddenly—BAM! He just toppled over!”

Harry’s jaw dropped. Draco glanced at him sideways. “Did Finnegan see the monster? Or,” he asked slyly, “who was controlling it?”

“No,” Pansy shook her head. “Or if he did, he’s not saying. What _I_ heard,” she said smugly, “is that when Thomas fell over, all Finnegan did was scream until someone came to see what was going on.”

“Really?” Daphne Greengrass turned to look at them. Harry leaned around Draco so that he could see her. “What _I_ heard,” Daphne said serenely, “is that Finnegan had dragged Thomas halfway to the Great Hall before anyone found them, and that when someone finally did, Finnegan was in _tears!_ ” She sat back, smirking happily.

Pansy scowled at her. “Well, _I_ heard,” she said, “that Filch was the one who found them, and he tried to give Finnegan detention, but the Headmaster over-ruled him—even though he _was_ out after hours!—just because Dumbledore is a silly old sap, who felt badly that Finnegan’s stupid Mud-blood friend got Cursed.” Pansy flipped her hair over her shoulder and smiled at Daphne.

Harry, however, was scowling. Draco glanced sideways and noticed, and his smirk soured. “Do watch your language, won’t you, Parkinson?” he said sharply.

Pansy drew back, her mouth dropping in indignation. “Watch my—? Draco Malfoy, I don’t know who you think you are, some days.” Pansy pouted, and tossed her hair again. She flounced off down the table, followed by Daphne.

Draco ignored them both, choosing instead to turn around and stare unashamedly at the Gryffindor table. Harry tried to look without looking like he was looking. He saw Hermione with Weasley and Longbottom. They and the rest of the second years were gathered around Seamus Finnegan, who was pale and sullen and looked small without his lanky friend.

Finnegan looked up and saw the Slytherins staring at him. He said something that Harry, sitting on the opposite side of the room, could not hear, but the rage on his face was clear enough. Finnegan’s friends leaned in, trying to calm him down. They kept skittishly looking over their shoulders at Harry.

“You’ve definitely got some fans over there,” Draco observed quietly. He was smirking as he watched the Gryffindors sulk.

Harry glared at his friend. “I am _not_ the Heir of Slytherin!” he protested.

Draco ignored him. He waved jauntily at the Gryffindor students. Finnegan and Weasley came up out of their seats. It took all their friends to pull them down again. Hermione clung to Weasley’s arm and treated him to what was, although Harry couldn’t hear her, quite obviously a shrill and lengthy lecture. Finnegan struggled to throw off his captors: Brown and Patil on one arm, and the Prefect Weasley on the other. He shouted loud enough to be heard across the hall, “You’ll pay for this, Potter—you and your friends—!”

The oldest Weasley yanked Finnegan back into his seat, and started a lecture of his own. Finnegan ignored the prissy prefect. The expression on his red face promised murder, and he didn’t look like he cared whether it was Harry or Draco on the receiving end.

“Ooh, scary,” Draco shouted back mockingly across the Hall. “What are you going to do, Petrify us?” A dead silence followed his words, as half the student body turned to stare.

Weasley and Finnegan both shot back to their feet, Lavender Brown still dangling off Finnegan’s arm. Draco snapped his fingers, and Crabbe and Goyle looked up from their plates. Their expressions brightened when they saw the burgeoning fight, but they still looked grumpy at having their breakfast interrupted, and ready to take their bad feelings out on the students responsible.

Goyle cracked his knuckles and Draco pulled out his wand, still smirking. Over at the Gryffindor table, Hermione and Longbottom had each armed themselves as well, although they were still sitting, and both seemed nervous.

Little Ginny Weasley peeked over the table, her face white. She looked like she had been crying again. Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown wrapped their arms around one another. Brown nervously chewed her fingernails. Percy Weasley grabbed his brother’s arm and dragged him bodily back to the table, but Finnegan started toward the Slytherins, his fists half-raised.

Harry debated the merits of running away. The last thing he wanted was to get into a fight in the Great Hall, in front of all the teachers. Besides, attacking the best friend of the most recent victim probably wasn’t a good way to convince anyone that he wasn’t actually the Heir. But if he ran now, Finnegan and however many other Gryffindors who decided to follow him might catch Harry out in the hallway, where there were no teachers around. And what if Draco didn’t come with him? Then Harry would be on his own, without Crabbe and Goyle around to lend a hand, or a fist.

Harry swallowed hard and drew his wand. He wished he knew better jinxes. He would have to ask Draco to show him some, if he made it through the morning without being killed—or expelled.

Something very much like a black cloud passed between the potential combatants. Finnegan stumbled and dropped quickly back into his seat. All the Gryffindors turned their backs, pretending great interest in their breakfast plates. Harry and the rest of the Slytherins looked away almost as quickly. At the tables in between, the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs who had been watching ducked their heads low. Everyone did their best to act like they had never seen one another before.

Harry risked a glance over his shoulder at Snape, standing paused in the middle of the Great Hall. The Potions Master took a moment to study the Gryffindor table, and then the Slytherin one. Harry thought Snape’s head might have twitched in the barest of nods, then the black-robed professor continued down the aisle. Everyone watched Snape climb the steps to the dais where the professors ate, but the Potions Master didn’t turn around again. Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

“Close one,” he muttered to Draco.

“Yeah.” The other boy’s pointed face drew up in a grimace. “Snape usually has much better timing. We would have _pounded_ Finnegan if he hadn’t interfered.” Draco sulkily speared a bit of potato and treated it to a thorough mashing.

Harry stayed silent, not having any complaints about Snape right now.

The Slytherins focused on their food for a while—none more so than Crabbe and Goyle—and it was thus with a jolt of surprise that Harry turned around to see a cluster of Gryffindors standing beside their table. Finnegan was in the front, red-cheeked with subdued rage. At his side stood Weasley and Longbottom, the latter looking pale and nervous.

“Something for you?” Draco sneered.

“Yeah,” Finnegan barked, “I want your specky friend’s head on a pike.”

Draco smirked. “Sorry,” he drawled, “don’t think that’s on offer. But I’ll bet Weasley would be glad to offer you his mum’s, for a handful of sickles.”

Weasley’s face mottled unpleasantly. “You’re pretty brave now, with Snape up there standing guard. You weren’t so cocky on your broomstick, is that why Potter’s flying in your place now?”

“At least I _can_ fly,” Draco retorted. “What do you call what you were doing?”

“Falling?” Crabbe offered boldly. Draco bestowed an approving smile on the burly boy, and his face lit up with pride. The Slytherins laughed.

“Shut-up,” Longbottom snapped.

That only made Harry and his friends laugh harder.

“Ooh,” said Draco, “you’ve told us, Longbottom! With wits like that, I’m amazed you weren’t in Ravenclaw.”

Longbottom’s round face went pink and he ducked behind Finnegan.

“You Cursed my mate,” Finnegan said, stepping right up in Harry’s face. He had to lean back and crane his neck to look up at the sandy-haired boy standing over him.

“I didn’t,” Harry argued. “I haven’t Petrified anyone. I’m not the Heir of—”

“Shut-it,” Finnegan snarled. “You have to pay, and I’m going to make you.”

“How do you propose to do that?” Draco asked smoothly, while Harry tried to lean away from the angry Gryffindor.

“Wizard’s duel,” said Finnegan. “Tomorrow night. Just us, no _monsters_. Unless you’re scared to face me with only your wand?”

“Of course he’s not scared,” Draco answered, before Harry could. “I’m his second, who’s yours?”

“I am,” Weasley said, scowling ferociously. Longbottom looked relieved.

“We don’t have to—”

But nobody was listening to Harry.

“Midnight, then,” Draco said, “that all right? We’ll meet you in the trophy room; that’s always unlocked.”

“Fine,” Finnegan snarled. “Midnight it is. And you,” he shoved his hand in Harry’s face, “you die.”

Harry leaned back so far he dropped his elbow into his eggs. “Um,” said Harry.

The Gryffindors wheeled around and stormed off, Longbottom trailing a few steps behind the others.

“Don’t worry,” Draco said breezily, “they don’t stand a chance.”

“Right,” said Harry. He smiled. “Thanks.”

“You two, you’re coming along for back-up,” Draco ordered Crabbe and Goyle, “just in case, right?”

They both nodded quickly.

“Good,” said Draco. He peeked over his shoulder at the Gryffindors as they returned to their table, to be lectured by Hermione Granger. “Yeah...don’t stand a chance,” he muttered, looking pale. He resumed mashing his potatoes.

Harry wasn’t hungry any more. “See you later,” he said, and hurried out of the room before any of his friends could try and stop him. He was halfway down the entrance stairs when he heard quick footsteps behind him.

“I’m going to visit Hagrid,” Harry announced, hoping that Draco would go back inside rather than follow him down to the gamekeeper’s. At the least, he thought Draco would want to fetch his cloak before venturing out into the chilly, snow-dusted grounds.

“How did you do it?” Draco asked without preamble.

“Do what,” Harry said tiredly, even though he knew exactly what his friend was talking about.

“Petrify Thomas,” Draco replied promptly. “I can’t think when you could have managed it. How did you do it?”

“I didn’t,” Harry said grimly. “Now will you believe I’m not the Heir?”

“No,” Draco said quietly, “no you _did_ , I just don’t know _how_...”

“Draco, you were with me the whole night! When could I possibly have attacked anyone without you seeing?”

“I don’t know,” Draco said, trotting up next to Harry and trailing him across the lawn, “why don’t you tell me?”

Harry groaned with frustration. “I can’t tell you, because I didn’t do it!” he cried. “You know I didn’t, I was in the common room at the party, you were there the whole time—”

“But you came late,” Draco interrupted. “You said you were ‘cleaning your broom’—but you really sneaked into the castle and opened the Chamber again, and set the monster on Thomas, didn’t you?”

“Of course not!” Harry said. “I haven’t set any monsters on anyone!”

Draco shook his head, clearly disbelieving. He rubbed his arms, shivering, but didn’t show any sign of giving up and going away.

“Think about it,” Harry pleaded. “You’ve been following me for weeks. You’re _always_ right there with me, every time somebody gets attacked. I _can’t_ be the Heir, you’d _know_.”

“No,” Draco argued stubbornly, “that’s not true. You went off on your own after those Hufflepuffs came around bothering us; I was in class with Crabbe and Goyle when Finch-Fletchley got attacked.” Harry opened his mouth to argue but Draco ignored him, continuing with, “and when those idiot girls were Petrified, you were alone in the Hospital. It would have been easy to slip out and hunt them down.”

“Why would I do that?” Harry asked.

Draco shrugged. “Why not? They were annoying.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said, “but what about the first attack on Mrs. Norris? You _know_ that wasn’t me—you’ve known I wasn’t the Heir all along. I don’t understand why you keep insisting I am.”

“What are you talking about?” Draco said. “Of course that was you.”

“I was at the Feast with you when she was attacked!” Harry said angrily. “How could I have done it?”

“You came late,” Draco pointed out reasonably. “You obviously attacked her before you joined the rest of us. The only thing I don’t understand, is how you could have kept such delicious news to yourself for so long.”

“I was late because I was cleaning a firework off my desk!” Harry insisted. “You remember, McGonagall made me stay late—”

“So you’d have been in the perfect mood to Petrify Filch’s cat, I’m sure,” Draco interrupted smoothly. “Not that it would take much, would it? If I could Petrify people, I’d have taken care of that cat long ago.”

Harry sighed. “If you’re so sure it was me, why did you tell the teachers it couldn’t have been? Remember,” he said, “you told them I was with you at the Feast the whole time, when Filch accused me.”

“Don’t be dense,” Draco said, “one never rats one’s friends out to teachers. Of _course_ I wasn’t going to tell _them_ your alibi had a hole in it.”

“Thanks,” Harry said glumly.

“Anytime,” Draco replied. “So, how did you get Thomas?”

Harry groaned with frustration. “I didn’t!” he cried. “Why would I do that?”

Draco stopped walking. He gave Harry a withering glare. “Really?” he said. “You want to play that game?”

“I’m not playing any game,” Harry insisted. “And I’m certainly not attacking people!”

Draco pouted. “I don’t understand why you don’t trust me enough to let me help you,” he whined.

Harry scowled. “Because I’m _not_ the Heir,” he grumbled. He knocked hard on Hagrid’s door and turned away from his friend, refusing to listen to any more.

Draco smirked. “Of course you’re not,” he said, with a very broad wink. “Of _course_ you’re not.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

The door of Hagrid’s hut was suddenly flung open. Harry and Draco found themselves face-to-face with Hagrid aiming a crossbow at them. Fang the boarhound barked loudly behind him. Draco yelped and jumped behind Harry.

“Oh,” Hagrid said, lowering the weapon and staring at them. “What’re you two doin’ here?”

“What’s that for?” Harry asked, pointing at the crossbow as he stepped inside. Draco followed skittishly, sticking close to Harry’s heels and being careful to keep Harry between him and the burly gamekeeper.

“Nothin’—nothing’—” Hagrid muttered. “I’ve bin expectin’—doesn’ matter—Sit down—I’ll make tea—”

He hardly seemed to know what he was doing. He nearly extinguished the fire, spilling water from the kettle on it, and then smashed the teapot with a nervous jerk of his massive hand.

“Are you okay, Hagrid?” said Harry. “Did you hear about the latest attack?”

“Oh, I heard, all righ’,” said Hagrid, a slight break in his voice.

He kept glancing nervously at the windows. He poured them both large mugs of boiling water (he had forgotten to add tea bags, not that Draco would have deigned to drink any tea that came from a bag anyway) and was just putting a slab of fruitcake on a plate when there was a loud knock on the door.

Hagrid dropped the fruitcake. Harry and Draco exchanged curious looks. “Yeh should get out o’ here,” Hagrid said.

“Why?” Harry asked. “Who are you expecting?”

“Never you mind,” Hagrid said firmly. He plucked Harry and Draco from their seats by the collars of their robes—Draco gave a strangled cry—and hustled them both out the back door and into the cold. “Git back to the castle,” Hagrid ordered in a loud whisper. “Yeh just stay out o’ this, Harry.”

The door slammed shut as Harry and Draco struggled back to their feet. Draco yanked his robes back into place. “Of all the nerve—!”

“Shh!” said Harry. He darted over to the garden window. Hagrid had the shutters open, so Harry could peer inside if he stood on his tiptoes. Draco slowly followed, reluctant to show any interest in what Hagrid was up to, no matter how secretive the large gamekeeper was being.

Hagrid lifted his crossbow again, squared his shoulders, and flung open his door once more.

The crossbow drooped back to the floor when Hagrid saw who was at his threshold: It was Dumbledore. He entered, looking deadly serious, and was followed by a second, very odd-looking man.

The stranger had rumpled gray hair and an anxious expression, and was wearing a strange mixture of clothes: a pinstriped suit, a scarlet tie, a long black cloak, and pointed purple boots. Under his arm he carried a lime-green bowler.

“Cornelius Fudge?” Draco said. “What’s _he_ doing here?”

“Cornelius Fudge?” Harry repeated. “Hey—your dad knows him!”

“Of course he does,” Draco replied witheringly. “The minister is a close personal friend of my fa—”

“Shh!” Harry said again. Draco sniffed indignantly, but Harry ignored him. He pressed his face against the grimy glass, trying to hear.

Hagrid had gone pale and sweaty. He dropped into one of his chairs and looked from Professor Dumbledore to Cornelius Fudge.

Fudge shook his head, his sorrow ringing false even through the dusty window-pane, and said something that Harry couldn’t hear. Hagrid shook his head and gazed imploringly at Professor Dumbledore.

The white-bearded headmaster moved to stand next to Hagrid, clearly indicating that he was on Hagrid’s side. Dumbledore frowned at the minster, who shifted uncomfortably. He fidgeted with his bowler as he spoke, and avoided looking directly at Dumbledore.

Harry looked at Hagrid, hoping for a clue as to what was going on, and saw that the large man was trembling. He looked terrified. Harry swallowed hard. Hagrid called huge, monstrous three-headed dogs “Fluffy,” and played with them like they were puppies. Anything that could scare him was something that Harry didn’t want to ever meet.

“Not Azkaban!” Hagrid cried, so loudly that Harry could hear him right through the wall.

“Azkaban?” Draco repeated, curious. “What’s the great oaf done that would merit a trip to _Azkaban_ , I wonder?”

Harry elbowed his friend. “Hagrid’s not an oaf,” he protested automatically. Draco didn’t seem to hear, rising higher onto his toes for a better view.

Everyone inside the small cabin was gesticulating strongly now, Hagrid positively flailing in his distress. Finally Fudge stamped his foot, Hagrid dropped his face into his hands, and Dumbledore folded his arms together crossly.

Fudge stepped toward Hagrid, one arm outstretched as if he planned to clap the gamekeeper on the back comfortingly, but then he thought better of it and dropped both hands to fiddle with his bowler again. It was Dumbledore who stepped to Hagrid’s side and coaxed the big man upright, Dumbledore who walked Hagrid gently to the door. Fudge hovered at their heels, but whatever he tried to say, Dumbledore brusquely cut him off. Harry couldn’t hear the headmaster through the window, but the chiding tone of his words was clear from the fire in his blue eyes and the disappointed frown that wrinkled his brows.

Dumbledore opened the front door and eased Hagrid through it, leaving Fudge to make his own way out in their wake. The minister flapped his hands, dithering consolingly, but Hagrid didn’t seem to hear him and Dumbledore looked like he was done listening.

The door banged shut behind the three of them, and Harry darted to the side of the hut so he could watch the mismatched figures make their way up to the school. Distantly Harry heard the sound of Fang howling from inside the cabin.

“What,” he said aloud, “was that all about?”

“I don’t know,” Draco shrugged, “but I’ll bet my father does.”

“Ask him,” said Harry.

 

Draco wrote his father that afternoon, and the next morning at breakfast, Harry and Draco got Lucius Malfoy’s answer. They ran out into the hall to read it, Crabbe and Goyle left behind as they were more interested in sausages than stories. Draco unfolded the parchment, and he and Harry skimmed Mr. Malfoys’s response together.

“They think _he’s_ the Heir of Slytherin?” Draco exclaimed.

“What?” said Harry, grabbing the letter. “Where?”

Draco, a slightly faster reader than Harry, pointed to a paragraph halfway down the page. Harry read the words three times, but they never changed.

“Ha! He was expelled?” Draco said. “That explains why we never see him do any magic, then—they’d have snapped his wand, I bet.”

Harry used the excuse of reading the rest of the letter to avoid catching Draco’s eye. He decided the secret of Hagrid’s pink umbrella wasn’t something he needed to share, although he had a good idea of what had happened to Hagrid’s broken wand.

Harry read on. Hagrid had been taken away to Azkaban as a precaution, due to the attacks, because he had a record, and the Ministry had to be seen to be doing _something_.

It turned out that Hagrid had been expelled from Hogwarts in his third year (fifty years ago, the first time the Chamber of Secrets was opened) because he had been believed to be the one keeping the monster that had been causing all the attacks—a prefect had turned him in when a girl died—although Hagrid had since been, if not quite acquitted, then at least forgiven his youthful indiscretions, enough so that Dumbledore had been able to keep him on as gamekeeper. After all, there had never been any indication that Hagrid had _meant_ for his monster to hurt anyone—although if he had opened the Chamber of Secrets, surely even Hagrid must have suspected something.

Then again, Harry knew that Hagrid had always had an unfortunate liking for large and monstrous creatures. If, as a boy, Hagrid, had heard that a monster was hiding somewhere in the castle, Harry was sure he’d have gone to any lengths for a glimpse of it. He’d probably thought it deserved a chance to stretch its many legs; Harry could just imagine the thirteen-year-old Hagrid trying to fit a leach and collar on it. But he was equally certain that Hagrid would never have meant to kill anybody.

“D’you think he did it?” Harry gasped to Draco.

“Of course not,” Draco said. He snorted loudly in disbelief. “That oaf, the Heir of Slytherin? Don’t be an idiot, Potter.”

“He’s not an oaf,” Harry muttered half-heartedly.

Draco ignored him. “Besides,” he continued, “did you even read the letter? Father clearly knows it wasn’t Hagrid. He says as much right here.”

“He didn’t say that,” Harry protested.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Not outright, of course,” he sneered. “Imagine if someone else got their hands on a letter where father explicitly states that he knows who the Heir of Slytherin is, or isn’t. That would be a bit hard to explain! How much trouble do you think it would get him into?”

“Oh,” said Harry, “that makes sense.”

“Of course it does,” Draco answered smugly.

“But if Hagrid’s not the Heir, why did they take him to Azkaban?” Harry asked.

“I’ll bet Fudge just needed to look like he was doing _something_ , to get people to shut-up. I’m sure he’s been getting _lots_ of complaints from parents about all these attacks. Shipping a suspect off to Azkaban will quell the panic, at least for a while.”

“So he just sent Hagrid to prison in order to make himself look good?” Harry cried, scandalized.

Draco shrugged. “That’s my guess,” he replied calmly.

“But that’s horrible!” said Harry. “They can’t send an innocent person to prison without proof!”

“Of course they can,” Draco said. He snorted again, even more disdainfully than before. “It’s happened before, and it’ll happen again,” he added cynically.

Harry shook his head. “Dumbledore would never let them take Hagrid away without some kind of evidence that he was involved,” Harry insisted.

“You think the old coot had any say in the matter?” Draco asked. “Don’t be ridiculous. At this point, Dumbledore doesn’t have a choice. It’s probably all he can do to keep Fudge from having the Ministry take over the school, or even shut it down.”

“Shut down Hogwarts?” Harry gasped. “Would they send us home?”

“Oh, it won’t come to that,” Draco reassured him. “The governors would step in and find a more palatable solution,” he explained sagely. “If we’re lucky, they might just appoint a new headmaster.”

Harry didn’t say anything to that, knowing that nothing he said would convince Draco that Professor Dumbledore wasn’t the bumbling old madman that Lucius Malfoy said he was. “I still can’t believe the Ministry would just lock up Hagrid for no reason...”

“Easier to believe that, than think he’s the one opening the Chamber of Secrets,” Draco said. “And if you need more proof, just wait. Hagrid being gone won’t mean _anything_ to the Heir.” He grinned smugly. “I predict another attack within the month.”

Harry swallowed. He was really starting to think that he didn’t care for the Heir of Slytherin one little bit.

 

Harry and Draco spent the afternoon practicing spells, but Harry wasn’t sure how much good it was going to do him. Given his poor showing at Lockhart’s aborted Dueling Club, Harry was pretty sure that Seamus Finnegan was going to be able to beat him with one hand tied behind his back.

They were in an unused classroom just down the hall from where they usually had Potions. None of the teachers aside from Snape seemed keen on the dungeons, which meant there were several empty classrooms down here, which the students found very useful, even if it was chilly in January. Harry and his friends were all wearing their scarves and gloves, which had the added benefit of helping to soften stray jinxes.

Practicing for the duel in their common room had seemed like inviting trouble. Harry didn’t want to miss the duel and have the Gryffindors taunt him for cowardice, because he was stuck in hospital getting fixed up after an older student’s “helpful” demonstration of hexes.

“Just remember, with an offensive spell, intent is almost as important as proper incantation,” Draco reminded Harry for the eleventh time. He was quoting his father. It made him sound pompous.

“I know,” Harry snapped, “you sound like Lockhart.”

Draco didn’t; Lockhart had so far not given his class a single useful instruction, let alone repeated it, but that shut the pale boy up, enabling Harry to concentrate on practicing the Stinging Hex he was trying to learn.

Draco sulked until Harry, deciding he had the hang of that spell, shot a Stinging Hex at Crabbe. The large boy yelped and clutched his face. Draco cackled so hard he fell off the desk he had been sitting on.

Harry pretended it was an accident of course, apologizing as sincerely as he could manage. Crabbe still went for Harry, his thick fists clenched and his nose swelling, but Draco, still laughing, stopped him before he could hit Harry. Crabbe snarled angrily but, as always, obeyed.

“Really sorry, mate,” Harry said. He grinned. “Guess I need to work on my aim.”

Crabbe grumbled something nasty, and sat in the corner to sulk.

Everything went fine after that, until Goyle lit his hand on fire and had to go up to hospital.

Visitors were no longer allowed in, following Dean Thomas’s Petrification, so Harry, Draco, and Crabbe lingered outside the door while Madame Pomfrey looked the whimpering Goyle over.

Filch went slinking past at the end of the hall. He gave the three boys a gimlet-eyed glare. Harry moved closer to his friends and tried to hide behind Crabbe. Filch only shuffled away when Madame Pomfrey opened the door and peeked out at Harry and his friends through the crack.

“No,” she told the Slytherins, “I’m afraid he’s going to have to stay overnight. We can’t have the skin growing back too quickly and fusing. Burns can be tricky.”

Fortunately Madame Pomfrey never asked too many questions, but the hard look she gave them had all three boys scuffing their toes and looking at the ground.

“Mr. Goyle will be fine in the morning,” Pomfrey said, “now hurry back to your common room. It’s nearly curfew, and you can’t be wandering the halls after dark—not these days.” She sighed. When the matron shut the door the boys could hear the heavy click of a latch.

“Don’t reckon the Heir is going to hurt us,” Draco said with a smirk, but they obediently returned to the dungeons to wait.

Harry wondered if Goyle had burned himself on purpose, to avoid the Gryffindors.

 

Midnight came all too soon, and Harry once again unfolded the Invisibility Cloak his father had left him. It was a tighter fit with Crabbe along, and Harry was almost glad that Goyle was in hospital. He felt vulnerable going to face the Gryffindors without the other half of the burly duo, but there was no way that all four of them could have squeezed under the same cloak and remained hidden. As it was, Crabbe kept stepping on Harry’s heels, and he almost tripped several times on the stairs.

They flitted along corridors striped with bars of moonlight from the high windows. There were more teachers wandering around the halls than was usual after sunset, but thanks to the Invisibility Cloak, the Slytherins managed to pass them undetected. They sped up a staircase to the third floor and tiptoed toward the trophy room.

It was eerie, walking through the dark and silent school, knowing that somewhere there lurked a monster. Harry envied Draco: being so certain that Harry was the Heir, the pale boy wasn’t worrying about anything more dangerous than a detention. Harry kept listening for the sound of claws and fangs on the flagstones.

The three boys crept through a long gallery lined with suits of armor, and Harry jumped at every flicker of candlelight on the shiny metal, convinced that he saw eyes watching him. It was with relief that Harry finally pushed open the door to the trophy room, despite knowing that angry Gryffindors were waiting there to fight him.

There was no one inside, though. “Looks like we got here first,” Draco observed, barely bothering to keep his voice down. Harry elbowed him in the side. “Quiet,” he hissed.

Harry yanked the Invisibility Cloak off and balled it up. He looked around. The crystal trophy cases glimmered where the moonlight caught them. Cups, shields, plates, and statues winked silver and gold in the darkness. Harry tucked the cloak out of sight on a corner shelf, and pulled a large silver chalice in front of it. He didn’t want the Gryffindors wondering what the shiny fabric was.

No sooner was Harry done then he heard scuffling sounds at the far door. He, Draco, and Crabbe moved close together and all three drew their wands, Crabbe a beat slower than the other two.

The door opened and in walked Seamus Finnegan, his own wand already out. Weasley and Longbottom followed him into the room and shut the door behind them.

“Potter,” Finnegan spat. “Malfoy, Crabbe.”

“Finnegan,” Harry nodded back, hoping he didn’t look as nervous as he felt.

The two trios observed each other from opposite ends of the room.

Weasley looked around. “Where’s the other one?” he asked.

“None of your business,” Draco sneered back.

“Planning an ambush?” Weasley said. “I knew you Slytherins were cowardly...”

“The only coward in here is Longbottom,” Draco smirked.

Harry had to admit that his friend was right: Neville Longbottom was actually trembling, and walking so close behind Weasley that he kept tripping on his heels. At Draco’s words, Longbottom squeaked, and dropped his wand. He scrabbled for it across the floor and managed to catch the thin stick just before it rolled under a cabinet. When he straightened back up, his round face was bright red.

The Slytherins laughed.

“Let’s get on with this,” Finnegan snarled.

“Shall I officiate?” Draco offered. He bounced to the center of the room before anyone could reply, and cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, draw your wands,” he said pompously, even though Harry and Seamus both had their wands out already. “Everyone else, put yours away.” Crabbe didn’t move until Draco nodded at him specifically. “You, too,” he hissed at the burly boy. “Seconds, are you ready?” Draco continued, sneering at Weasley.

The red-head nodded curtly, and stuffed his wand back inside his robes. “Ready,” he growled.

“So am I,” Draco smirked, “so, what about our primary duelists? Potter?”

Harry swallowed hard. His wand felt slippery in his hand. “Ready,” he said. Harry bowed.

“And you, Finnegan?”

“Aye,” the sandy-haired boy barked. Finnegan remained upright, glaring at Harry.

Draco grinned and gave Harry a wink. “Begin,” he said.

Harry realized belatedly that the wink had been meant to give him an extra second’s warning, but by then the duel had already started.

“ _Rictusempra!_ ”

“ _Petrificus Totalus!_ ”

Finnegan dropped to the ground, giggling. Harry’s arms and legs snapped together and he toppled backwards slowly. He hit the ground with a hard thud, but didn’t feel anything. He struggled but the only thing he could move was his eyes, staring madly at the ceiling.

“No, wait—” Harry heard Draco whisper to Crabbe. Harry would have been touched to think that Crabbe was ready to fight for him without a direct order from Draco, but right now he was too distracted by his own immobility.

The howls of laughter from Seamus Finnegan weren’t helping, either.

“Would someone shut him up?” Draco snapped. “Half the staff is patrolling the corridors tonight, and the last thing we need is your head of house sticking her nosy beak in here because she heard that cackling.”

“McGonagall’s not the one with the beak,” Weasley snapped, “Snape looks like he’s ready to take up flying—”

“ _Finite incantatum_ ,” Draco said.

Harry groaned as feeling returned to his limbs. He struggled to his feet and saw Finnegan, his mad laughter dying off in gasps, doing the same.

“That’s cheating,” Weasley argued.

“I ended both spells,” Draco said, sounding sulky. “That seems fair to me.”

“Only by accident,” Weasley muttered.

Harry wasn’t about to say as much aloud, but he thought Weasley was probably right.

Seamus and Harry leveled their wands at one another again. _“_ _Tarantellegra!”_ Harry shouted, at the same time that Finnegan cried, _“_ _Impedimentia!”_ The jets of light shot past one another, and Harry had just enough time to wish that Lockhart and Snape had taught them how to block unfriendly spells, before he was knocked off his feet. He fell backwards into the corner cabinet, feeling wood snap behind him.

Several trophies and plaques rained down on top of him with an almighty, thundering crash. Harry threw his arms up to shield his head as best he could, but one sharp-edged shield caught him on the eyebrow, and he yelped. Harry straightened his glasses and struggled to pick himself up from the pile of awards.

“Now you’ve done it!” Longbottom whimpered. “They’ll be able to hear that for miles!”

“We should go,” Harry said. His stomach swam sickeningly. Harry pressed a hand to his forehead, and it came away sticky with blood. “Longbottom’s right, someone has to have heard that...”

“You can’t leave now!” Draco cried. “You’re winning!”

Harry looked over at the Gryffindors: Finnegan was lying on his back, his legs kicking madly like a beached turtle. His face was red with anger and he kept trying to point his wand at Harry, but each time he got it lined up, one of his feet would strike the floor, sending him spinning.

“Not for long,” Weasley snarled. He stepped around his friend and drew his wand. “Eat slugs, Potter!”

“Ron, don’t!” Longbottom yelped, but everyone ignored him.

Harry struggled to shift his bleary focus to the new target, despite the hollow ringing in his skull, but before Weasley could cast his hex, Draco leveled his own wand: _“_ _Serpensortia!”_ he cried, and once again, a giant snake exploded from the end of his wand. It landed on the stone floor between the Slytherins and Gryffindors, and looked around, searching for prey.

“Go on,” Draco said gleefully, “tell it to get them!”

“Wha—? No—”

But the Gryffindors were already scrambling away from the huge serpent. It slithered after them. Weasley backed up, his wand leveled at the snake, and his eyes very wide. Longbottom bolted, only to fumble helplessly with the door latch. Finnegan managed to get to his feet, but they immediately kicked out from under him and he fell back over. The snake closed in.

“Neville, help me!” Weasley shouted. Longbottom hesitated at the door, then ran back to his friends. Together Weasley and Longbottom hauled Finnegan up onto their shoulders—his feet still kicking madly—and dragged him along. The snake reared up, hissing.

Harry struggled out from under the trophies, and ran after the snake. “Stop!” he yelled. “Stop, let them go!”

The snake heard him, and dropped flat against the floor. It looked back at Harry, as if cross that he had denied it its fun. Harry stopped, panting, and rubbed his aching head.

The Gryffindors were gone, their disjointed footsteps echoing through the empty hallways. The door banged hollowly behind them.

Harry looked over his shoulder. Draco and Crabbe were doubled over, laughing. “We really have to get out of here,” Harry said. He looked back at the snake. “What are we going to do about this?”

“I don’t know,” said Draco. He shrugged. “You’re the Parselmouth. Tell it to go away.”

“I don’t know how to speak Parseltongue!” Harry protested.

“Well you don’t seem to have a problem doing it by accident,” Draco pointed out. “Just give the snake an order, and you’ll probably end up saying it in Parseltongue. You have so far.”

Harry nodded hesitantly. “Okay,” he said. He stared at the snake, which had started to raise its head and peer around the room, hunting for new targets. “Go, um...go somewhere else,” Harry told the snake. “No, wait!” He looked at his friends. “Where do I tell it to go?” he asked. “I can’t just send it out into the hallway.”

“Put it down a toilet,” Crabbe suggested. Harry and Draco both turned to stare at him. Crabbe ducked his head under the scrutiny. “I dunno,” he mumbled, “that’s what my dad did with a fish I had once...”

Harry raised an eyebrow dubiously, but Draco nodded. “That might work,” he said. “It would certainly fit in the pipes, and no one would see it there.”

“Okay,” said Harry, uncertainly. He looked at the snake, which seemed to be watching him impatiently. “So, uh...go find a pipe,” Harry told the snake. “Stay out of sight. Find a drain. Get in the pipes. And don’t hurt anyone.”

Harry expected the snake to argue or attack, but instead it slithered away. Crabbe ran ahead to open the door for it. The snake glanced up at him, and Crabbe jumped back out of the way, but the snake didn’t pause: just shot away down the dark hallway, opposite the direction the Gryffindors had taken.

“That is so cool,” Draco said, his voice envious.

“What?” Harry asked.

“That you can speak Parseltongue. Do you think you could teach me?”

Harry shook his head. “Draco, I don’t even know when I’m doing it, let alone how.”

“I suppose not.” Draco sounded wistful. Even Crabbe was staring at Harry with jealous awe writ large on his thick face. Harry turned away, feeling uncomfortable. His fluency with Parseltongue was yet another thing that he had done nothing to earn, and people being impressed by it made Harry feel the same way he did when they called him the Boy Who Lived.

Harry walked over to the unbroken trophy cabinet and fished his Invisibility Cloak out of its hiding spot. The cloak was the one thing he had inherited that Harry _did_ like, even if his ability to speak to snakes was coming in handy this year. The cloak, at least, wasn’t part of some mysterious ancestry; it had been his dad’s, and now it was Harry’s. Simple as that.

A sudden noise out in the hallway—and coming closer—made Harry yank the cloak out of the cabinet faster than he meant to. A silver chalice tottered and fell over.

Harry ran to his friends. He had no sooner thrown the cloak over all of them than the door opened. The three boys froze, staring.

Professor McGonagall marched into the room. She pushed Longbottom ahead of her, one hand on his shoulder. Weasley skipped along at her side, McGonagall’s fingers fastened tightly around the redhead’s ear. Seamus Finnegan, his legs no longer dancing, followed behind, looking angry.

“Well?” barked McGonagall. “I don’t see anything in here besides a mess.”

“Maybe they’ve run off—”

McGonagall let go of her captives and stalked across the room, leaving Weasley rubbing his ear. Harry held his breath and tried to edge backwards, but ran into the solid bulk of Vincent Crabbe. Crabbe put a hand over his own mouth so McGonagall wouldn’t hear him breathing.

Draco turned around and, before Harry could stop him, drew his wand. He pointed it at the door and whispered, _“Colloportus.”_

Harry winced but no one else seemed to hear. McGonagall reached the far door and tugged on the handle; it didn’t budge. She turned back around to face the Gryffindors—looking right through Harry and his friends—a very stern expression on her face.

Finnegan and the others spoke quickly:

“They must have got past us, Professor—”

“Maybe they’re hiding?”

“They were here! Potter and Malfoy and Crabbe.”

“I thought it was Goyle?”

“No, it was definitely Crabbe—”

“Regardless,” McGonagall interrupted curtly, “I see no Slytherins, nor a giant snake. I am ashamed of you boys, making up stories of that sort, during these trying times.” She stomped back over to the three cringing students, her sharp face furious. “To lie about monsters, at a time like this, for no purpose other than to avoid your just punishments for breaking school rules—and sneaking about after dark, these days! I should think that you at least, Mr. Finnegan, might have some comprehension of the danger you have all put yourselves in, the seriousness of the risk you so lightly took.”

Seamus Finnegan’s face went white, and then red. Next to him, Weasley and Longbottom looked away, not meeting anyone’s eye.

“And then,” McGonagall continued, her voice shaking she was so angry, “to attempt to cast blame on other students, any other students—your behavior is completely deplorable. I am ashamed to have such students in my house. Gryffindor,” McGonagall said fiercely, “should stand for something more.”

All three boys looked at the floor, Longbottom nearly in tears. Draco was leaning heavily against Crabbe, and shaking with silent laughter. Harry carefully tugged the cloak sideways to make sure it wouldn’t slip and expose the three of them.

Professor McGongall bent over and snatched one of the scattered trophies from the pile on the floor. “This room,” she snapped, “holds the records and awards of those students whom Hogwarts can be most proud of.” She waved the small gold shield at the Gryffindors, who flushed with shame. “Those who excelled at their studies, and those who went above and beyond academia to prove their worth, and the nobility of this school. They are not to be treated with disrespect by troublemakers who will bring Hogwarts nothing but shame.” McGonagall glanced at the shield in her hand.

Suddenly she gave a squawk of distress, and dropped the trophy. It clattered loudly on the stone floor, then spun to a stop near the invisible feet of Harry and his friends. Harry edged backwards until he ran into Crabbe again.

Professor McGonagall, looking very pale, grabbed Weasley and Finnegan by the shoulders. “You will all have detentions tomorrow, repairing the damage you’ve done,” she announced, her voice shrill. “Additionally, ten points will be taken from Gryffindor—”

“But Professor—!”

“The Slytherins—!”

“— _each_ ,” McGonagall finished furiously.

The horrified sounds of the Gryffindors’ protests faded as McGonagall marched Weasley and Finnegan away, Longbottom practically tripping over his robes in his haste to follow them.

Harry threw the cloak off. “That’s thirty points!” he exclaimed, meeting Crabbe’s grin with one of his own.

“What, really? Thirty?”

“Ten each!” Harry laughed. “Can you picture the look on—”

Draco darted between them, and ran to the fallen shield. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands a few times.

“What are you doing?” Harry asked. “We really need to get out of here. If McGonagall comes back...”

“I want to see what startled McGonagall so much,” Draco said. “Did you notice, when she saw what she was holding? I thought she was going to faint!”

“Well what is it, then?” Harry looked around nervously, wishing Draco would keep his voice down.

Draco shook his head. “It’s nothing,” he said. “It’s just an award for ‘special services to the school,’ given to some bloke named ‘T. M. Riddle’ in 1943. I don’t get it. What’s so scary about that?”

“Maybe he was an old boyfriend or something,” Harry said impatiently. “Can we please just get out of here before we get caught? If McGonagall took thirty points from her own house, I hate to imagine what she’ll do to _us_.”

“Fine,” Draco said. He dropped the shield carelessly back onto the pile of fallen trophies, the metallic clatter making Harry wince. He threw the cloak over all three of them and they hurried back down to the Slytherin dungeons. Several times Harry had to remind Draco that just because they were invisible didn’t mean no one could hear them, and at one point they almost ran into Professor Lockhart coming around a corner.

Harry and his friends stumbled backwards, Crabbe swearing quietly when he bumped his elbow into the wall. Fortunately Lockhart looked grumpy and distracted, and was muttering to himself unhappily; he didn’t even look up.

The Slytherins waited until the purple dressing robe-clad professor had been out of sight for several minutes before they started off again, walking slower now. It was a good thing, too, because when they reached the bottom of the stairs they found two prefects on patrol: the red-haired Weasley from Gryffindor, and a curly-haired girl from Ravenclaw. The three boys had to sidle along the wall to stay out of their way.

When they finally made it back into their common room, Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak off with relief. “Can you believe how many people there are running around the school at night? And since when have prefects patrolled this late?”

Crabbe yawned and nodded.

“Oh I don’t think they were patrolling,” Draco said slyly. Curious, Harry turned to face him. “I think,” Draco said, “they were looking for the monster!” His grey eyes glittered in the light from the banked fire.

“I’ve warned you about that Peter Weasley before, Harry,” Draco continued. “I bet he thinks if he can catch the monster, or even figure out who the Heir is, he’ll get a nice fat reward. And you know how poor the Weasleys are. He’s probably pretty desperate, you want to watch out. He could really be trouble for you.”

“For the millionth time,” Harry growled, “I’m not the Heir of Slytherin.”

Draco just smirked. Harry rolled his eyes and left the common room. Behind him, he could hear Crabbe say, voice thick with confusion, “he’s not?”

“Don’t be stupid, Crabbe,” Draco replied. “He’s obviously lying. But don’t worry, I’m sure Potter will change his mind and let us help soon enough—he’ll _have_ to. The Heir needs us.”

Harry trudged down the stairs to the dormitory, and shook his head. He couldn’t wait for the Heir of Slytherin to be caught, just so he could prove to Draco that it wasn’t him.


	14. Valentine's Day

The sun had now begun to shine weakly on Hogwarts again. Inside the castle, the mood remained dreary, but with a dreadful edge of hopefulness. There had been no more attacks in the month since Hagrid had been carted off to Azkaban, and Madame Pomfrey was pleased to report that the Mandrakes were becoming moody and secretive, meaning that they were fast leaving childhood.

“The moment their acne clears up, they’ll be ready for repotting again,” Harry heard her telling Filch kindly one afternoon. “And after that, it won’t be long until we’re cutting them up and stewing them. You’ll have Mrs. Norris back in no time.”

Most of the school seemed determined to adopt this cheerful attitude. Harry didn’t understand how everyone could be so easily convinced that Hagrid had been the Heir of Slytherin, but he had to admit that he was glad that people no longer thought it was him.

He felt bad for Hagrid though. From what Draco had told him, Azkaban was a horrible place. Harry hated the thought of the cheerful gamekeeper locked up somewhere so dreadful. Harry even went so far as to ask Draco if he thought his father could do anything for Hagrid. Having been rescued himself by Lucius Malfoy, and knowing that Draco’s family was on a first-name-basis with the Minister of Magic, Harry figured that if anyone could save Hagrid it would be Lucius Malfoy.

“No,” Draco said, “if Fudge wants to make a big, public statement by shipping Hagrid off, then father can hardly point out he’s actually innocent, can he? Fudge obviously already knows Hagrid’s not the real culprit, he just needs to be seen to do _something._ And it’s not as if we have _evidence_ that Hagrid isn’t to blame—we just know better, because we’re smart. Besides,” he added logically, “letting Hagrid go now, that would only make Fudge look _worse_.” Draco shrugged, more concerned with his Herbology essay than he was with the gamekeeper. “Don’t worry,” he told Harry, “the Heir will attack someone else any day now, and then Fudge will _have_ to let Hagrid go.” He grinned, looking up from his parchment for the first time. “Maybe it’ll be Granger,” Draco said with relish.

Harry scowled. “Don’t be horrible,” he said.

“Relax,” Draco said, still grinning, “I’m only joking, you know that.”

“It’s not funny,” insisted Harry.

 

Gilderoy Lockhart seemed to think that he himself had made the attacks stop. “I always knew that Hagrid fellow was bad news,” Harry heard him telling Sprout one day as the Slytherins were trudging out of the greenhouse. “Always stomping around outside, mucking about in the Forbidden Forest—who knows what nasty things he was getting up to out there!”

“Hagrid is the gamekeeper,” Sprout protested. “He’s supposed to be out in the forest.”

Lockhart shook his head, not listening. “And the way he would go on about monsters and creatures and horrible beasties—why, the man hardly even bothered to hide his affection for the things! It’s only a wonder nothing like this happened before. Of course, who’s to say it hasn’t!”

“What hasn’t?” Sprout asked, not paying attention; she was busy trying to coax a particularly stubborn vine into releasing its hold on Goyle’s wrist. Harry and his friends were standing well out of the way, but watching with great interest. The plant seemed to want the candy that Goyle held clutched in his fist. Harry could have told Sprout that her entire greenhouse would wither and die before Goyle relinquished a Bott’s Bean, but he didn’t want to interrupt. Her pruning sheers looked very sharp.

“Monster attacks, my good woman!” Lockhart said. “Yes, I suspected all along that there was an ulterior motive to Dumbledore asking me to take on this job.”

“You were the only one who applied,” Sprout muttered. The vine twisted, showing a thorny underside. Goyle whimpered.

Lockhart ignored her. “He must have known that Hagrid was up to something, and he brought me in—Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class—so that I could ferret out the culprit, and see justice restored to the school!”

“You didn’t have anything to do with Hagrid’s arrest!” Sprout snapped, yanking a handful of leafy tendrils off of Goyle’s swelling skin. “And I can’t believe he had anything to do with the attacks, either!”

“My dear Professor Sprout, the Minister of Magic wouldn’t have taken Hagrid if he hadn’t been one hundred percent sure that he was guilty,” said Lockhart, in the tone of someone explaining that one and one made two.

Harry and Draco exchanged a scathing glance. Lockhart, Harry decided privately, really did get stupider by the day. Sprout just snorted and returned to wrestling with the plant. Goyle’s face had begun to turn very pink, and drops of sweat rolled down his thick face.

“No,” Lockhart went on oratorically, “the danger has passed, and my duty is done. Of course,” he added quickly, “I intend to stay out the year, keep teaching—the ‘cover’ for my efforts here—and share my knowledge with our lucky students.”

“Lucky us, all right,” Draco muttered in Harry’s ear. Harry had to stuff his sleeve in his mouth to keep quiet.

“But lectures—ha! Exams—ha! Those are nothing, compared to besting Slytherin’s Monster!” Lockhart swelled up and planted a hand on his chest, like he was posing for a statue. “After that heroic effort, I can say that I fear no final exam! Let the students bring all their questions, all their challenges—I shall prevail!”

“You haven’t bested anything,” Sprout said impatiently. She finally tugged Goyle free, and the pudgy boy scampered away from the ravenous plant. A few thin tendrils reached after him, but Sprout slapped them away. “And if I hear you say one more bad word about Hagrid—”

“Ah, Hagrid! I have defeated few more dangerous foes in my day,” Lockhart continued, barely listening. “Certainly cleverer ones, mind; and much better looking, too! But the Heir to the Chamber of Secrets—yes, I daresay this incident will merit at least a chapter in my new book! _Harrying the Heir_ , perhaps,” Lockhart mused, _“_ or _Horror at Hogwarts...”_ There was a very vacant look in his normally bright eyes.

Sprout waved her pruning sheers in his face. “You listen to me, man,” she started to say, her plump cheeks dangerously red, but Lockhart draped an arm around her shoulders. His grin never faltered.

“You know,” he said, “what the school needs now is a morale-booster. Wash away the bad memories! I won’t say any more just now, but I think I know just the thing...”

He tapped his nose conspiratorially and strode off.

Draco and Harry couldn’t help but snicker at the outraged look on Professor Sprout’s face, and they ran off before she could notice them laughing and assign them clean-up duty.

Lockhart’s idea of a morale-booster became clear at breakfast time on February fourteenth. Harry had realized halfway up the stairs that he had forgotten the essay they had to hand in to McGonagall that morning, and had run back to the dungeon to fetch it. He hurried back up to the Great Hall, slightly late.

Harry thought, for a moment, that he’d walked through the wrong doors.

The walls were all covered with large, lurid pink flowers. Worse still, heart-shaped confetti was falling from the pale blue ceiling. Harry went over to the Slytherin table, where Crabbe and Goyle sat gaping in open-mouthed disgust, and Draco was laughing so hard there was tears trickling down his pale cheeks. Theodore Nott looked like he had swallowed a very large lemon.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked them, sitting down and wiping confetti off his bacon. Draco pointed to the teachers’ table, too overcome to speak. Lockhart, wearing lurid pink robes to match the decorations, was waving for silence. The teachers on either side of him were looking stony-faced. From where he sat, Harry could see a muscle going in Professor McGonagall’s cheek. Snape looked as though someone had just fed him a large beaker of Skele-Gro.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Lockhart shouted. “And may I thank the forty-six people who have so far sent me cards! Yes, I have taken the liberty of arranging this little surprise for you all—and it doesn’t end here!”

Lockhart clapped his hands and through the doors to the entrance hall marched a dozen surly-looking dwarfs. Not just any dwarfs, however. Lockhart had them all wearing golden wings and carrying harps.

“My friendly, card-carrying cupids!” beamed Lockhart. “They will be moving around the school today delivering your valentines! And the fun doesn’t stop here! I’m sure my colleagues will want to enter into the spirit of the occasion! Why not ask Professor Snape to show you how to whip up a Love Potion! And while you’re at it, Professor Flitwick knows more about Entrancing Enchantments than any wizard I’ve ever met, the sly old dog!”

Professor Flitwick buried his face in his hands. Snape was looking as though the first person to ask him for a Love Potion would be force-fed poison.

“Did you hear that, Parkinson?” Draco called as they left the Great Hall for their first lesson. “Forty-six! Looks like you have some competition, huh?”

Pansy’s only response was a withering glare, then she and her gang of girls turned their collective backs on Harry and his friends and stalked ahead of them out the door. Harry snickered.

All day long, the dwarfs kept barging into their classes to deliver valentines, to the annoyance of the teachers, and amusement of the students. By afternoon, though, it had started to get tiring. Harry was glad that their last class of the day was Potions. He figured that even dwarfs brave enough to wear silly wings and deliver valentines for Gilderoy Lockhart would stop short of interrupting one of Snape’s lessons.

But Harry was wrong. Just as the class was setting their Deflating Draughts out to simmer, the door banged open and in walked a particularly grim-looking dwarf.

“Can I help you?” Snape said, his voice cold enough to make Harry, sitting in the front row with Draco, shiver. The Potions Master raised a dangerous eyebrow, obviously intending for the dwarf to beg his pardon, turn around, and leave.

The dwarf stayed put. “I’ve got a musical message to deliver to ‘Ermione Granger in person,” he said, twanging his harp in a threatening sort of way.

The entire class turned around to stare at Hermione, who was so shocked she dropped the jar she was holding. Mistletoe berries scattered across the floor. Hermione stood next to her desk as stiffly as if she, too, had been Petrified.

Snape swept coolly out from behind his desk. “We are in the middle of a lesson,” he hissed. The dwarf had to crane his neck to look up at the tall, black-clad wizard looming over him. “Ain’t leavin’ until I deliver it,” the dwarf announced belligerently.

Snape’s black eyes flicked around the room, paused on Hermione, then returned to the dwarf. “Very well,” he drawled, “if that is the fastest way to be rid of this tedious interruption, then be about your business. The girl you want is that one.” Snape pointed at Hermione, who went very pale. Weasley stared up at her from his seat, horror on his freckled face.

The rest of the class fell deathly silent, waiting. Snape returned to his seat and picked up a scroll of furled parchment, as if he had no further interest in anything happening in his classroom, but Harry noticed that the Potions Master’s eyes didn’t move across the page.

The dwarf stomped over to Hermione. “Right,” he said, settling his harp, “here is your singing valentine:

_Your blood may be dirty, your hair is a bush;_  
 _If you can’t answer a question, you start to cry._  
 _When you raise you hand, I want to give you a push—_  
 _I guess I am just a really weaselly guy._  
 _Well if I could afford it, I’d find a much better girl,_  
 _But I don’t care about mud, ‘cause I live in a sty._  
 _You’ve got teeth like my name, but let’s give this a whirl;_  
 _If it wasn’t for you, I’d have failed out of school,_  
 _so say you’ll be mine—else I’m stuck with this_  
 _long-bottomed fool!_

 The dwarf finished with a jangling chord upon his harp.

The Slytherins burst into laughter. Draco pounded his desk, making his potion ripple. Crabbe and Goyle pounded each other, eyes streaming. Blaise Zabini positively cackled, and Theodore Nott leaned weakly against his desk, chortling. Pansy Parkinson gave a shriek, and she and her friends all collapsed into a pile of giggles. Even Snape seemed to be smirking a little.

The Gryffindors, by contrast, all looked outraged. Neville Longbottom had gone very pink, and was trying to hide behind his desk. Brown and Patil were both sneaking glances at Hermione and Ron from behind their hands. Weasley had gone the same color as his hair, and seemed to be hyperventilating.

Harry couldn’t see Hermione at all, because she had flung her hands over her face. The moment the dwarf finished his song, Hermione shoved past him and ran blindly from the room. The door slammed heavily behind her, the loud bang echoing over the Slytherins’ laughter.

“Quiet,” Snape drawled, “quiet down now, class...” Everyone sank back into their seats, the Gryffindors looking uncomfortable and angry while the Slytherins struggled to stifle their laughter.

Draco wiped his streaming eyes. “Oh Merlin,” he said, “did you see her face?”

Harry frowned. “Did you write that?” he asked.

“What are you talking about?” Draco said innocently. “The valentine? Clearly that was from the Weasel, Potter, don’t be daft. Didn’t you hear it?” He sniggered.

Ron Weasley shot up out of his seat, his fists clenched. “Ron, no!” Longbottom hissed, and yanked him back down.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Weasley?” Snape asked silkily, suddenly appearing at the Gryffindor boys’ side. Weasley and Longbottom stared up at him, the former mutinous while the later went pale with fear. Longbottom whimpered and tried to shrink down into his seat.

“No,” Weasley mumbled. “Had a cramp.”

“Well, see to it that it does not recur,” Snape commanded. His thin lips twitched into a smirk.

“Yes sir,” Weasley said, scowling horribly. He mashed up a few puffer fish eyes with the handle of his knife. His face was still bright red, and his hands shook with anger.

Even while worrying about Hermione, Harry couldn’t help but smirk. He had never seen Weasley so embarrassed. Then he caught Longbottom’s eye, and looked quickly away. For some reason, the misery on his round face made Harry feel guilty.

“Don’t know why,” he muttered to himself. “It’s not like _I_ wrote the song.”

“What’s that, Potter?” Draco asked.

“Oh—nothing,” said Harry. “Nothing at all.”

 

Draco was still grinning twenty minutes later when class ended. The Slytherins and Gryffindors separated at the door, heading back to their separate common rooms. Crabbe and Goyle stuck tight to Draco’s side, and Harry made sure to stay near them, so all Weasley and his friends could do was glare. When Snape leaned out of his door to glower, they finally trooped off, following the rest of the Gryffindors up the stairs.

Harry and his friends turned to head down deeper into the dungeons.

“What I don’t understand,” Goyle said, his face scrunched up in concentration, “is why Weasley got angry. If he didn’t want people hearing his valentine, he shouldn’t have told the dwarf to deliver it during class.”

Draco stared at Goyle with a pitying expression. Harry just shook his head.

“ _...Kill...let me kill this time...rip...tear..."_

Harry froze. “Did you hear that?” he gasped.

The others turned to look at him. “Hear what?” said Draco.

“That hissing voice, it’s—I think it’s the monster!”

Draco looked at the other two for answers, but Crabbe and Goyle—as usual—had none to give. Draco turned back to Harry. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

“ _Rip...kill...KILL!”_

“That! I think it’s the monster from the Chamber! Come on!”

Harry took off up the hallway, trying to follow the sibilant voice.

“But I don’t hear any—You’re going to show us the monster?” Draco’s pointed face broke into a grin. “That’s brilliant! Wait for me!”

Harry sprinted up the stairs, barely noticing the sounds of his friends clattering after him. He was trying to follow that angry, hissing voice, but it seemed to be able to travel right through the walls. Harry pelted down the hallway, ignoring the cluster of first years who scattered in front of him. He skidded around a corner, his trainers squeaking on the stone floor, and he bolted right past a startled Argus Filch.

“You! Get back here—!”

But a horrible feeling of premonition had fallen over Harry. He ignored the calls to stop, running now through a few inches of water, his footsteps (and the steps of those following him) splashing loudly. Harry came to a stop in the open doorway of the bathroom haunted by Moaning Myrtle. He clutched the doorframe and stared in horror at the sight within.

Hermione Granger, her eyes wide and hands raised, lay on the floor in front of the row of sinks. Her bushy hair swirled in the overflowing water, but nothing else moved: Hermione had been Petrified.

A translucent head peered out at Harry from one of the stalls. “Just look at her! Isn’t it horrible?” Myrtle asked, her voice gleeful.

“Shut-up, Myrtle,” Harry growled.

Others started to crowd in behind Harry. Draco peered over his shoulder. “But...but _how_...?” he stammered. Draco looked back and forth between the Petrified girl and his best friend, shock and disappointment at war on his pale face.

Harry shook his head mutely. He allowed himself to be pushed aside. The shouts and cries of the growing crowd sounded distant to Harry’s ears, like a heavy veil hung between him and the rest of the world.

It was Professor Snape’s sharp voice that finally jolted Harry back to reality.

“What is the meaning of all this noise?”

The crowd drew back in front of the Potions Master. He stepped past Harry and Draco, then stopped sharp at the sight inside the lavatory. Snape stared at the Petrified girl.

“Fetch Dumbledore,” he commanded quietly.

Filch hobbled off as fast as he could.

“Did anyone see the attack?” Snape demanded.

The students all backed away, looking at the floor. Snape’s black eyes fixed on Harry. “Mr. Potter,” he said, “would you care to explain?”

“I—what?” Harry looked up, startled.

“You went sprinting past my classroom, directly up here to Miss Granger. I am asking if you have an explanation for this strange behavior.”

Everyone except for Draco moved away from Harry.

“I...I was just...worried,” Harry said. He swallowed hard. Snape’s black eyes seemed to be piercing through Harry’s very soul. He was going to need a very good story to get out of trouble this time.

“Worried,” Snape repeated flatly.

“Well, I...I don’t think that Hagrid is responsible for opening the Chamber of Secrets,” Harry said. He forced himself to meet Snape’s gaze. “And Hermione’s my friend. I was afraid that—well—” Harry glanced at the unmoving body lying in the water. “I realized she’d be alone, and...I worried.”

Whatever Snape might have said next was interrupted by the arrival of Albus Dumbledore. Filch wheezed at the headmaster’s heels. “Another attack?” Dumbledore said, his voice tired.

Snape immediately stepped aside so that Dumbledore could see past him into the bathroom. “It was Miss Granger, headmaster,” the Potions Master explained. “The girl was meant to be in my classroom, but she left early—those damned dwarves of Lockhart’s—and apparently she encountered the...unknown assailant. She seems to have been alone at the time.”

Dumbledore sighed and for a moment, as his shoulders sagged, he looked indescribably old. Then he shook his head and moved into the bathroom. He bent down at Hermione’s side, then looked up. “Myrtle,” he called, “may I speak to you a moment?”

The ghost floated back out into view. “Yes, headmaster?” she asked. The dead girl looked elated to be called on.

“Did you see anything, Myrtle? Did you see the attacker?”

Myrtle shook her head. “No,” she said, “I was in my stall, thinking about death. I know someone came in crying,” she added happily, “but I didn’t bother coming out to see who. There are always people crying, but my misery is _so_ much more interesting than anyone else’s. Living people can get _so_ tiresome. Besides, she wasn’t saying anything interesting, just sniffling—”

“And the attack itself?” Dumbledore prompted.

“Oh, no I didn’t see that either,” the ghost said. “I heard a splash, and then a bunch of people running around, and she was just lying there. As still as death.” Myrtle chortled. “It’s so awful.”

“It is indeed,” Dumbledore said sadly. He raised himself to his feet. “Severus—?”

“Of course, headmaster.” Snape stepped forward, followed by Filch. Together they carried the dripping, immobile form of Hermione away. All of the students stepped well back, giving the Petrified girl and her bearers a wide berth.

Dumbledore looked at the students. “Return to your common rooms, please,” he told them. “Your Heads of House will join you there shortly, with an important announcement. I ask everyone to refrain from panicking, and not to walk alone. Thank you.”

Dumbledore swept away.

Harry and the other students stared at each other in silence, then everyone started talking at once. Harry turned away, having nothing to say to anyone. He thought of that strange hissing voice. He was convinced now that it was the monster, but why was he the only one able to hear it? Harry wondered if he should tell Dumbledore about following the voice up here, but wouldn’t everyone think Harry really was the Heir, if they found out he could hear the monster? That was a secret Harry couldn’t trust anyone with, especially not Dumbledore. He didn’t want to be sent off to Azkaban like Hagrid.

Finally the students dispersed, in nervous groups. In all the confusion, no one noticed little Ginny Weasley slip out of a bathroom stall and join the other first years—

No one except for Draco.

 

Harry was halfway back to the common room when he realized that his friend wasn’t with them. He looked around. There was Crabbe, and there was Goyle, both of them sticking tight to Harry’s heels. There was no sign of Draco.

Harry stopped walking, and the other two stopped with him.

“What is it?” Goyle asked, his voice nervous. Crabbe cracked his knuckles and scanned the empty hallway.

“Where’s Draco?” said Harry.

Crabbe and Goyle looked around frantically. “I dunno,” Crabbe gasped. “You don’t think the monster—?”

“No,” Harry lied firmly. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

His friends nodded, believing him. Harry wished he shared their confidence.

 

Draco didn’t return to the Slytherin common room until much later. Harry sat near the fire with Crabbe and Goyle, all three boys tense and silent. The common room was crowded with students. The rest of the day’s activities had been canceled, and all students told to report to their dormitories. Now the Slytherins waited for Snape to appear with the promised announcement.

News of the latest attack had spread quickly, and the dungeon was filled with the sounds of gossip and speculation. People debated who was most likely to be Hagrid’s accomplice, or whether the monster might now be loose in the castle without its master’s supervision. They argued about whether or not Hagrid had ever had anything to do with the Chamber of Secrets, and compared increasingly outlandish rumors.

No one thought to worry about Hermione.

Finally Draco arrived, only a few seconds ahead of Snape’s entrance. He dropped onto the couch next to Harry. “Where were you?” Harry asked him, but Draco shook his head. “Later,” he whispered.

The Potions Master stepped through the secret doorway and looked around at his students. All talking stopped, every eye fixed on Snape.

“There has been, as you no doubt already know, another attack,” he said flatly. “We must now assume that the Ministry was mistaken, and that the crisis has not been averted by the removal of our gamekeeper.” Snape’s sallow face was sober, but Harry thought he detected a faint sneer in his voice when he spoke of the Ministry. “As such, certain precautions have been decided upon,” Snape continued. “You will obey every stricture, or I will personally see to your punishments.”

A hushed silence met that pronouncement. No Slytherin would idly risk their Head of House’s displeasure. His reprimands were legendary.

“All students, regardless of year, will return to the House common rooms by eight o’clock in the evening,” Snape explained shortly, “approved activities notwithstanding. No one will leave after that time, until breakfast the next morning. The rest of your day may be spent in your classrooms, the library, the Great Hall and adjoining courtyard, or your dormitories. The remainder of the school is off-limits without a teacher’s specific approval.” Snape’s face turned sour. “No one is to go _anywhere_ alone, for any reasons. Especially after dark. You will move in pairs, or in larger groups. If I catch any Slytherin wandering by themselves, I will have that student in detention—with me—for the rest of the school year.” Snape’s black eyes glittered, and Harry swallowed.

“First year students,” Snape continued, “will be assigned pairs; I trust the rest of you to be able to choose your own companions as needed, but I will assign permanent ones if I think you are neglecting to follow this rule strictly enough. All after-class groups and clubs must now be overseen by a teacher,” he added unhappily. “As such, all extracurricular activities are canceled until you obtain a teacher’s approval, and schedule your meetings so as to provide for proper supervision.”

“What about Quidditch?” Marcus Flint shouted.

Snape’s eyebrow raised sharply. “I believe I said _all_ activities, Mr. Flint.”

The students didn’t dare speak amongst themselves with Snape glaring at them, but several outraged looks were exchanged.

“Even study groups?” a seventh year girl asked.

“ _All_ activities,” Snape said sharply. He glared at the students. “Any further questions?”

No one asked any.

“Obviously the situation is dire,” Snape went on, after a few moments of silence. “We have already been faced with Ministerial interference. If the culprit is not soon caught, Hogwarts may well be closed. I will accept any _legitimate_ suspicions regarding potential suspects, but I caution you not to waste my time with petty jokes or grudges. I have no patience for such tomfoolery under these circumstances.”

Harry wondered what sort of circumstances might give Snape patience.

“I am so far relieved that no Slytherins have been subject to attack,” Snape added, “and I urge you all to maintain your wits and caution, and not to present yourselves as targets of opportunity. Go no where alone, no where after dark, and disobey no rules. If you see anything suspicious, report it immediately. If you know anything about these attacks,” he continued darkly, “I suggest that you inform myself or one of the other heads of house immediately—or start packing for home.”

With one last glare, Snape turned in a swirl of black robes and stalked through the secret door. Marcus Flint ran after him. The stones ground shut behind them both, closing the Slytherin common room off from the rest of the school. After waiting a few seconds to be sure that Snape really was gone, the Slytherins all began whispering.

“Who are we going to get to supervise gobstones?”

“How are we going to schedule our meetings? There aren’t enough teachers to go around for _every_ activity, not unless we all restrict ourselves to once-a-week or something.”

“What about the bathroom? Surely we don’t have to take a partner in there with us, do we?”

“I’d count on it. That latest Mud-blood got Petrified in a bathroom. They’ll be paranoid.”

“Do you think they’ll give us a handicap on our N.E.W.T.s scores this year, on account of the stressful circumstances?”

Harry was only half-listening. He didn’t seem to be able to get rid of the picture of Hermione, lying on the wet bathroom floor as though carved out of stone. And if the culprit wasn’t caught soon, he was looking at a lifetime back with the Dursleys.

“They wouldn’t really close the school, would they?” he asked.

“I doubt it,” Draco snorted. “What Hogwarts needs is a change in administration, not mothballing.”

Harry shivered.

“So,” Draco continued, “we need to figure out who the Heir is—”

“Finally ready to admit it’s not me, are you?” Harry asked sourly.

Draco squirmed. “Well, you can’t say the evidence hasn’t been pointing to you, up until now,” he whined. “But, now...well, we _saw_ Granger run out of the classroom, and you weren’t out of sight once between class ending and us finding her in the bathroom, so...” He shrugged. “Anyway, the point is, since it’s not you—who is it?”

Harry shook his head. “That,” he said grimly, “I don’t know. But I wish I did.”

“Me too!” Draco agreed. “And you know who I think knows?”

Harry jerked around to look at his friend so hard he almost whipped his glasses right off his face. “Who?” he gasped.

“Ginny Weasley.”

Harry stared. “You’re joking,” he said.

“Nope.” Draco shook his head confidently. “She was in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom when Granger was attacked.”

Harry’s jaw went slack. “How do you know that?” he asked.

“I saw her sneaking out afterward. I don’t think anyone else noticed.”

Harry stared at Draco; out of the corner of his eye, he could see Crabbe and Goyle doing the same thing. “So,” Harry said slowly, “the reason you took so long to get back here...”

“Is because I was trying to get her to tell me what she saw, yeah.” Draco leaned back against the couch, looking smug.

“So what did she say?” Harry asked breathlessly. Crabbe and Goyle both nodded, leaning in closer.

Draco frowned. “Actually, it was really strange,” he said. “At first she hardly seemed to hear me at all, then she got really scared, and pretended to be confused, like she didn’t know what I was talking about,” he scoffed. “You know what I think?” Draco said, his eyes lighting up. “I think she’s probably known something about the Chamber all along.”

“What do you mean?” Harry said.

“Well think about it,” Draco explained impatiently. “She’s always skulking around, hanging onto that stupid diary and throwing a strop any time someone else picks it up...maybe she’s got something written in there! We should steal it and see.”

“Oh come on,” Harry protested, “she’s just a mopey first year, leave her alone.”

Draco shook his head, barely listening. “No,” he said, “no I’m sure she knows something, even if she didn’t see exactly who the attacker was...”

“Don’t steal her diary, Draco, that would be really mean. I bet she doesn’t know anything. She’s a Weasley, for crying out loud...”

But the more Draco thought about it, the more convinced he became that Ginny Weasley knew something about the Chamber of Secrets that he didn’t.

 

The rest of February remained cold and dreary, and the mood inside the castle matched the weather. No one went anywhere alone, and the first year students had taken to traveling as one big group. Even the Slytherins were noticeably nervous, although Harry thought they were doing a pretty good job of pretending not to be. They were the only people still laughing or joking in the hallways, though it sounded forced to Harry’s ears.

The Gryffindors had become especially subdued. “No surprise,” Draco said with a smirk, “they’ve lost three. They must realize that the odds are good that the next victim will be one of them.” Ron Weasley moped in silence, and even Seamus Finnegan’s hot temper had been muted by the attack on Hermione. Lavender Brown was prone to bursting into tears for no reason, but as Draco observed unkindly, she seemed to be crying more for attention than anything else.

Everyone, even Lockhart, had now realized that Hagrid couldn’t be the Heir. (Of course, now everyone was once again certain that it was Harry, except for Draco was had finally been convinced otherwise.) Harry waited daily for news that the gamekeeper had been released from Azkaban, and every morning he peered out of the windows at Hagrid’s hut, hoping to see the familiar curl of smoke rising from its chimney. But the days crawled on, and there was no sign of Harry’s largest friend.

“When are they going to let Hagrid go?” he asked Draco.

“Let Hagrid go?” he repeated dumbly. “Potter, are you mental? Fudge can’t _let Hagrid go_ , not without another suspect to arrest in his place.”

“But there was another attack,” Harry protested stubbornly. “Now they _know_ Hagrid’s innocent.”

“There’s still no proof, though,” Draco explained. “Fudge can just say that Hagrid obviously wasn’t working alone, and make reassuring noises that since the Ministry has the main culprit in custody, it won’t be long before they have his accomplice too. Don’t you read the _Daily Prophet?_ ” Harry shook his head. “Well,” Draco said, “that’s the tack the Ministry has been taking. They won’t let Hagrid out until they have absolute proof that they have to, not when keeping him locked up is the only sign they’ve got that they’re actually _doing_ something. If they released Hagrid now, people would panic.”

“That’s not fair,” said Harry.

“No,” Draco agreed blithely, “but that’s politics.” He shrugged, returning breezily to his Charms essay while Harry fumed. “If you want to see Hagrid free,” Draco suggested slyly, “help me get a hold of that diary, so we can see who the Heir _really_ is.”

Harry ignored him.

Quidditch practice continued, much to Marcus Flint’s relief, albeit under Snape’s supervision. The Potions Master joined the Slytherin team every Friday evening, accompanying them in silence. He stalked out to the pitch and settled himself in the bleachers like a sulky black crow, book held up close to his nose, and read by wandlight for precisely one hour. Then Snape snapped his book shut, turned on his heel, and stalked back to the castle with an expression akin to martyrdom on his sallow face.

Harry noticed, though, that every now and then Snape would peek up from his book and watch the players, when he thought they were all too busy to be looking at him. Harry was careful not to let on that he noticed.

Professor McGonagall was supervising the Gryffindor practices, which seemed to both delight and infuriate Oliver Wood; he was often seen in close conversation with his Head of House after their training sessions. Flint smirked, and made snide comments about inferior captains needing the help of elderly witches, at least until he realized that the new rule about traveling in pairs did nothing to restrict the Weasley twins from their mischief. One attack of boils was enough to convince him to keep quiet about the Gryffindor team, or at least make sure he wasn’t overheard.

Flitwick oversaw Ravenclaw’s practices, but Professor Sprout being busy with the Mandrakes, the other teachers took it in turn to watch over the Hufflepuff training sessions. Applebee could often be heard lamenting this fact, but Draco just laughed. “What does he think, that anyone _wants_ to spy on what they’re doing?” Harry grinned, even though he was pretty sure that Oliver Wood wouldn’t object to a look at the Hufflepuff playbook. The closer it came to the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match at the end of the month, the more manic the Gryffindor team became. McGonagall finally had to put her foot down when Wood tried to talk her into letting him practice every night in the week leading up to the match. Harry heard them shouting about it in the corridors after breakfast.

“You’re lucky there’s going to be a match at all!” McGongall shrieked at her captain. “With everything going on right now, Quidditch is a hairsbreadth away from being canceled altogether!”

Wood went pale. “You can’t cancel Quidditch,” he croaked.

“The match will be held,” McGonagall informed him sternly, “because we feel that it is important to maintain a semblance of normalcy as best we can, for the students’ sake. But I will not tolerate any further whinging on the subject.”

She spun on her heel and stalked off, nostrils flaring. Wood stood slack-jawed behind her, looking as though he had been Petrified himself.

“You don’t think they’d really cancel Quidditch, do you?” Harry worriedly asked Draco.

“I bloody hope not,” his friend replied, paler than usual. He scowled. “Whoever the Heir is, I hope he waits until after the match to attack his next victim. There’s such a thing as priorities!”

Harry had to agree.

“Shame we don’t know who the Heir is,” Draco complained. “It only we could _tell_ him...”

“Yeah,” said Harry darkly. “There are a whole lot of things I’d like to say to the Heir.”

Harry had thought that having Draco no longer trying to catch him in the act of opening the Chamber of Secrets would be a relief. And it was, at first. But it wasn’t long before Harry realized that Draco had just found someone else to stalk instead: Ginny Weasley.

Draco would disappear for long stretches during the day (taking either Crabbe or Goyle with him so as not to break Snape’s edict about walking alone). His dodgy behavior did not go unnoticed by the other students, and it wasn’t long before Harry heard Draco’s name suggested as a suspect for the Heir of Slytherin almost as often as he heard his own.

Draco enjoyed the attention, preening and smirking whenever he overheard. He also flashed lots of grins at Weasley, Finnegan, and the rest of the Gryffindors, although most of them were too morose to notice. Draco eventually grew irritated with the rumors, though, because he knew he _wasn’t_ the Heir, and was trying to find out who was.

“This is so frustrating!” he whined to Harry one night in the common room. “How am I supposed to get the Weasley girl alone so I can steal her diary, if she goes everywhere in company with the entire pack of Gryffindor first years?”

Draco’s latest attempt to separate Ginny Weasley from the group, by jinxing her shoelaces so they tied themselves together, had failed: her fellow first year Colin Creevey, the one who had once tried to get Harry’s autograph, had noticed the girl’s distress and made the rest of the class wait until she untied herself and could catch up. Draco was still fuming.

“Maybe you should just give up and leave her alone,” Harry suggested. “If Ginny knew anything about the Heir or the Chamber, don’t you think she’d have told Professor McGonagall by now?”

“Not if she was afraid the Heir would find out,” Draco replied grimly. “Have you seen the girl? She’s clearly terrified of something—and I think I know what.”

Nothing Harry said could convince Draco to leave the red-head alone.


	15. The Worst Departure

Harry started tuning Draco out when he complained about the Weasley family, Ginny Weasley in particular. Draco never said anything new, because there was never anything new to learn, so his rants were easy to ignore. Harry made noncommittal noises and concentrated on his revision. That, at least, he finally had enough time for: with everyone afraid of the monster, there wasn’t much else to do.

The Slytheirns spent a lot of time in their common room these days, and the one good thing about the forced seclusion was that Harry was finally catching up on all the Wizarding games that his friends had played since childhood. He even beat Thedore Nott at Exploding Snap yesterday, much to everyone’s surprise. Right now he was only a few moves away from winning Gobstones, and Harry was debating whether having Crabbe sulk all evening would be worth the victory.

“I’m going to ask my father,” Draco suddenly declared.

Harry looked up at Crabbe and Goyle, who returned equally blank looks. “Ask him what?” Harry prompted, when Draco said nothing else.

“About the Weasley girl. And what she knows about the Heir of Slytherin.”

“What makes you think your dad would be able to help?” Harry asked, feeling very confused.

“I want to know about her family,” Draco said. “About who they might be related to.”

Harry stared. He chuckled. “You think Ginny Weasley is the Heir of Slytherin?”

Draco replied with a withering look. “Don’t be an idiot,” he said. “But I think she knows who is—and I think there’s a reason she’s keeping quiet.”

“You said she was scared...”

“Right, but if the Heir was worried that she might give him away, do you think he’d settle for just _scaring_ her into keeping quiet? When there’s a fool-proof solution?” Draco shook his head. “If the Heir has any brains at all, he has to realize that the only certain way to keep Weasley from betraying him, is to Petrify her—and for that, I’m pretty sure he’d make an exception.”

“An exception to what?” Harry asked. Draco wasn’t listening. He pulled parchment out of his bag and started to write.

“Since she hasn’t been Petrified, there must be a _reason_ the Heir is confident that she won’t give him away, and I’m thinking it might be because he knows her. Maybe he’s a cousin, or something—a friend of the family, at least.” Draco wrinkled his nose at that idea, then moved on quickly, adding, “but a relative is more likely. One can’t do much to choose _those_ , can one? In fact, _we’re_ related to the Weasleys distantly, somehow.

“Of course I can’t just come right out and ask father if the Weasleys are related to the Heir of Slytherin,” Draco explained to his listening friends. “It’s too risky. If the letter got intercepted by anyone, they’d wonder why I was asking, and how father knows—and I wouldn’t be surprised if Dumbledore decides it’s time to start reading our mail soon, he must be panicked. But I’m sure if I hint at it, father will know what I’m really asking. And then,” Draco grinned, “maybe we can finally get some real answers, and find out who’s opening the Chamber of Secrets. Maybe he’ll even let us help! Won’t that be brilliant?”

“Oh yes,” said Harry, who had several ideas of how best to help the Heir of Slytherin, “absolutely brilliant.”

Harry did not, however, share Draco’s confidence that they would soon know everything. It was obvious that skittish, weepy little Ginny Weasley didn’t know a thing about the Chamber of Secrets, and the last person whose ancestry Draco had tried to trace back to Salazar Slytherin had been Harry himself. The Weasleys were going to be just one more dead end in the secret of the Heir.

The next morning at breakfast though, when Draco’s owl Bowman arrived with Lucius Malfoy’s response to his son’s oblique query, Harry was forced to change his mind.

> Draco,
> 
> Stay away from the Weasley girl for your own safety. Do not speak to her, do not be seen with her, do not ask anyone questions about her, not under any circumstances.
> 
> Do not disobey me in this. I mean it.
> 
> — _Father_

Draco handed Harry the note in silence, his pale face slack. Harry read it through three times, then looked back up at Draco. “What does that mean?” Harry asked.

“It means,” said Draco, his eyes bright, “that we’re definitely on the right track.”

 

Harry was now more than happy to help Draco stalk Ginny Weasley. They soon had the first year Gryffindors’ class schedule memorized, and Harry and Draco came up with all sorts of excuses to cross their paths throughout the course of the day. Ginny, however, remained safely surrounded by her fellow first years, and no plan that Draco or Harry could come up with managed to separate her.

“You’re right,” Harry admitted, after a futile morning spent hanging fake spiders on the ceiling, “this is really frustrating.”

Draco just grimaced. He was still struggling to get webs out of his hair.

They had had to use fake spiders, because they hadn’t been able to find any real ones. There were several corners of the dungeon that could usually be relied on to disgorge a few of the creepy crawlies, whenever a Slytherin needed one to throw at a friend or drop into a potion, but today it appeared that every eight-legged creature had quit the castle.

Harry and Draco had resorted to making some of their own out of crumpled-up paper, twigs, and black ink, and Draco had looked up a jinx that made one’s wand shoot really realistic (and very sticky) spider-webs that they had used to hang them with. Harry thought they’d done a pretty good job, but when the mass of fake spiders had dropped on the first years’ heads as they left Charms class, no one had run off in a panic. There had been lots of screams, and Ginny had ended up with almost as much spider-web in her hair as Draco, but she had seemed more annoyed than frightened.

It had been funny, and Draco and Harry had laughed so hard they were almost late for Transfiguration, but the prank hadn’t made it any easier for them to talk to Ginny Weasley alone. They were clearly going to have to try something else.

“I think,” Harry said, “it’s time to get my dad’s old cloak out again.”

 

They didn’t wait for dark this time. While Harry and Draco wouldn’t have had trouble breaking the new, stricter curfew, Ginny Weasley was not to the best of their knowledge in possession of an Invisibility Cloak. It was unlikely that the shy Gryffindor girl was sneaking out at night. If they were going to catch her, they were going to have to do it in daylight.

“We can’t do it during class, though,” Draco said. “The teachers are too paranoid. If we skive any lesson—even Potions—they’ll have a search party out looking for us. As if the monster would hurt us!” he laughed.

“There’s not a lot of time between class and curfew,” Harry pointed out.

“Right,” Draco agreed, “but I have an idea about that...”

Harry and Draco left dinner early. For once, neither Crabbe nor Goyle minded being left behind. When Draco had explained that he and Harry were planning to waylay Ginny Weasley, at first their friends had jealously protested, but the Invisibility Cloak wouldn’t fit all four of them. Harry was a lot stealthier than both Crabbe and Goyle and besides, it was his cloak. “I don’t think we’ll need your help with one stupid first year anyway,” Draco had laughed, and both boys sulked—until Draco mentioned the part of the plan that involved leaving dinner early. Suddenly, Crabbe and Goyle were only too happy to let their friends go alone.

Draco and Harry hid around the corner and watched the doors of the Great Hall from underneath Harry’s Invisibility Cloak. Students started leaving the dining hall in pairs and in larger groups, walking past the two Slytherin boys without even glancing sideways at them.

Finally, as Harry’s foot was starting to cramp from standing still so long, the students they had been waiting for came out the door: the first year Gryffindors walked in a clump out of the Great Hall and started climbing the staircases that would take them to their secret common room.

Harry and Draco followed silently behind the Gryffindor students. Harry’s eyes were fixed on the bright red head of Ginny Weasley. She shuffled along near the back of the pack, barely keeping up with the others. Next to her walked Colin Creevey, talking ceaselessly. Ginny said very little in response, and looked like she was annoyed by the constant chatter.

The Slytherins trailed Ginny and her housemates up more staircases than Harry remembered Hogwarts containing. They walked through two doorways hidden behind sliding panels and hanging tapestries. Once the boys nearly lost the Gryffindors when a staircase abruptly shifted between them, and Harry and Draco had to run down an adjoining hallway to catch up.

Finally the first years stopped in front of a portrait at the end of a long corridor. The woman in the painting was very fat and wore a pink silk dress. “Password?” she asked; unfortunately, Harry and Draco were too far away to hear what the small Gryffindor in front answered, though they strained their ears. The portrait swung forward to reveal a round hole in the wall. The first years scrambled through it in a line.

Harry and Draco hurried forward, the cloak flapping about their ankles. Fortunately none of the Gryffindors turned around and saw them.

“Diffindo!” Draco whispered, and Ginny Weasley’s shoelaces ripped in half.

Harry cast a quick Sticking Jinx, holding the broken lace to the floor. When Ginny stepped forward, she tripped against the tie. “Oh bother,” said Ginny, and bent down to tie her shoe.

Harry grinned in victory.

Little Colin Creevey poked his head back out the portrait hole. The mousy-haired boy was so short he could barely get his leg up over the opening without help, but he struggled to climb back out anyway.

“I’ll wait for you, Ginny—”

“I’m fine, Colin,” Ginny said quickly. “I’ll be there in a minute, go on.”

Creevey frowned. “But we’re not supposed to be alone—”

“I can see the common room from here,” Ginny said drily. “I think I’ll be all right.”

Creevey hesitated, then nodded and squirmed back inside. The portrait swung slowly shut behind him. “Having some trouble, dear?” the lady in the painting asked.

“Stupid shoe won’t tie,” Ginny muttered. “I’ll bet Fred and George jinxed it again...”

Harry and Draco having crept up cautiously behind the red-headed girl while she was talking, they now threw the cloak over her, and dragged her away backwards. “What in the world—?” the portrait gasped. Harry ignored the two-dimensional fat lady.

Ginny struggled, but couldn’t see who she was fighting. A hard fist clipped Harry on the ear, and he yelped and almost let go. They managed to pull her back around the corner, and Draco dragged the cloak off while Harry kept hold of the girl. She was red-faced and furious, and kicked Harry hard in the shin as soon as she could see him.

“Let me go!” Ginny ordered. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“We have questions to ask you,” Draco said calmly, his wand level with her nose.

Ginny stopped struggling and scowled at Draco. “Like what?” she asked, voice surly.

Harry cautiously let go of the girl and moved away from her. He rubbed his ear and winced.

“Like how old your family is,” Draco said.

Ginny Weasley stared. “Really?” she asked. “You want to talk about _blood-purity?_ ”

“Not exactly,” said Draco.

“We just want to know who all you’re related to,” Harry interrupted. “Or they could be a close friend instead, maybe.”

“Who I’m _related_ to?” Ginny repeated. She looked from one boy to the other, and back again. “Are you out of your minds?”

“Fine,” Draco snapped, “you don’t want to talk about your family? How about your little book, then?”

Before Ginny could stop him, Draco grabbed her school bag and yanked it away from her.

“Hey!” Ginny exclaimed, “give that back!”

Harry stepped in between the angry girl and his friend, his own wand drawn. Ginny stepped back against the wall and glared while Draco rummaged through her things. He looked up. “It’s not in here,” he said, frowning.

“It’s not?”

“Check her pockets,” Draco ordered.

Harry looked at the angry Gryffindor girl and swallowed hard. “Can I...can I look at your diary for a minute?” Harry asked. “Please?”

“No.” Ginny drew her robes in tight and pressed her back against the wall. Her brown eyes swam with suspicion. “Why do you want to see it?” she asked.

“Because we know what you’ve got in there,” Draco sneered. “We know your secret—”

“Oi!”

Harry and Draco whipped around. Coming up the hallway towards them were three tall figures: two red-haired and stocky, the third dark-skinned with a mop of dreadlocks on his head.

It was Fred and George Weasley, and their friend Lee Jordan. All three boys looked angry.

“What are you doing?” one of the Weasleys demanded.

“Get away from our sister, you,” the other snarled.

“We’re just talking,” Draco said blithely. Harry nodded in quick agreement.

“Well, we don’t like Ginny talking to you,” one of the Weasleys said.

“So shove off,” the other suggested.

The three fourth year boys came to a stop in front of Harry and Draco. Lee Jordan and one of the Weasleys crossed their arms; the other twin cracked his knuckles. Harry and Draco drew closer together, facing the three Gryffindor boys. Harry’s hand was sweaty on his wand. He wished now that they had brought Crabbe and Goyle along with them.

“I can handle this,” Ginny said, her face very red.

Her older brothers ignored her. “George said shove off,” said the Weasley who had cracked his knuckles; he was Fred, then.

“They seem a bit hard of hearing,” Lee Jordan observed mildly.

“I’ll bet we can fix that,” George said. He drew his wand. “Clean their ears out for them, what do you say, mates?”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Fred agreed.

“That’s not necessary,” Draco said quickly.

Harry edged backward, trying to retreat from the twins and their friend without getting closer to the girl pressed against the wall behind him. “We heard you the first time,” he told the Gryffindors, “honest. This was just a...a misunderstanding.”

“That’s right,” Draco added quickly, following Harry. He looked very pale. “We thought your sister knew something she obviously doesn’t. It’s not a big deal.”

“It will be if we catch you bothering Ginny again,” Fred growled.

“Won’t happen,” Harry fervently assured the fourth year boys. Draco nodded hard.

“Better not,” George muttered.

Harry and Draco kept nodding as they backed away down the corridor. As soon as they were far enough away from the four Gryffindors to risk it, they turned their backs and scurried off at a near-run.

Behind him, Harry heard one of the Weasley twins say to his sister, “So what’s this secret, then?”

“It’s nothing,” Ginny replied, “just some boring story about Percy...”

“Well I’ve already lost interest.”

“Me too.”

“Exploding Snap, then?”

“Yeah, good idea Lee, Ronniekins could use some cheering up...”

Harry and Draco didn’t slow down until there were three staircases between them and the Weasley twins. Draco handed Harry the Invisibility Cloak and he stuffed it inside his robes. “Well that was a waste of time,” Harry grumbled. Draco nodded, looking furious. “I really hate those guys,” Harry complained. Draco nodded again.

Harry sighed. “Let’s go,” he said.

They stalked back down to the dungeons in miserable defeat.

 

The Slytherins were given something new to think about during their Easter holidays. The time had come to choose their subjects for the third year, when students could add electives to their schedule. The second year Slytherins all clustered around a table in the common room, talking about the new classes.

“I just want to give up Defense Against the Dark Arts,” said Harry.

“We keep all our old classes,” Daphne Greengrass told him curtly.

“I know,” said Harry, “but I still wish I could drop Defense.”

Draco laughed. “But Harry,” he said, “Lockhart is a legend! A hero! A celebrity!”

“A pain in the ass,” said Harry.

Pansy Parkinson gasped, glared, and stomped off to look at her subject list somewhere else. Her friends all gave Harry dark looks and followed, leaving the boys alone.

“People say the job is jinxed, you know,” Theodore Nott said.

“What’s that?” Harry turned to look at the quiet boy.

Theodore was absently tapping his quill against his chin while he studied his subject list. “The Defense Against the Dark Arts post,” Theodore explained. “People say there’s a curse on it. I mean, no one seems to last very long, do they?”

Harry thought about that. “Quirrel was here for a while before he got—er—strange, wasn’t he?” he asked delicately.

“He used to teach Muggle Studies.”

All the Slytherin boys grimaced with disgust. “Eugh,” said Blaise Zabini, “why do they even _offer_ that class?”

Theodore shrugged. “It can’t hurt to know about them,” he said mildly.

Blaise goggled, and Crabbe and Goyle’s jaws both dropped.

“My father says ignorance is dangerous,” Theodore explained calmly.

“Well, mine says there are some things not worth wasting time learning,” Draco retorted. He crossed a thick line through Muggle Studies on his sheet. Crabbe and Goyle hurried to follow suite. Blaise Zabini scribbled across his parchment, blacking the subject out completely.

“What about you, Potter?” Zabini asked, sneering. “You going to take Muggle Studies?”

Harry shook his head. “I’ve had enough ‘Muggle Studies’ with my aunt and uncle, thanks,” Harry said, and crossed it out as well.

“I think I might take Ancient Runes,” Draco mused. Zabini yawned. “Father says it can come in handy,” Draco said. “Not every spell gets recorded in our modern textbooks.”

“Boring,” Zabini insisted. “If it’s that old fashioned, it’s not worth caring about.”

“Suit yourself.” Draco checked Ancient Runes on his subject list, then had to stop Crabbe and Goyle from doing the same thing. “Are you idiots stupid?” Draco asked. “You can barely manage a regular spellbook, what makes you think you could handle runes?”

The burly boys shrugged. “You’re taking it,” Goyle answered for both of them, “it has to be a good idea.”

Draco smirked. “Yeah,” he said, “but not for you. Trust me.”

Dejectedly, both boys rubbed the checkmark off, and sat slump-shouldered staring at their blank subject lists.

“What about Care of Magical Creatures?” Harry asked.

“Yeah, that’s a good one,” Draco agreed. “You two can take that one, too,” he told Crabbe and Goyle, as he checked the subject off on his own list. “It’s basic stuff everyone should know,” Draco went on, “or that’s what father says at least. You should take it with us.”

“Okay,” said Harry, who was relieved that no one had tried to talk him into Ancient Runes. That sounded difficult. “What about Arithmancy?” he asked.

Draco made a face. “Now _that_ soundsboring,” he said.

Theodore Nott gave a dignified sniff, and put a check mark down next to Arithmancy.

Harry couldn’t help but wonder what subjects Hermione would have chosen, if she was awake.

Both Theodore and Draco, and most of the other Slytherins, had been sent letters from their family, advising them what subjects to choose. Draco viewed his parents’ letter like an instruction manual, but Theodore pretty much ignored his. Neither Crabbe nor Goyle had gotten letters, but followed Draco’s lead devotedly.

Harry smiled grimly to himself at the thought of what Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would say if he tried to discuss his career in wizardry with them. He read over Draco’s shoulder instead.

“What about Divination?” he asked.

“That wasn’t taught here when father and mother were at school,” Draco said, skimming over his letter. “They don’t have much to say on the subject.”

“Huh,” said Harry. He thought knowing the future could really come in handy, but was it possible to actually predict? In the end, he ended up choosing the same classes as Draco (except for Ancient Runes), figuring that at least he’d have someone friendly to help him. Besides, with Crabbe and Goyle around, Harry could take comfort in knowing he wouldn’t be the worst in the class.

 

April was a dull, gray affair that year, perfectly matching the mood inside the castle. There hadn’t been another sign of the monster or the Heir since Hermione’s attack on Valentine’s Day, but everyone was tensely waiting for the next one. The school prefects were kept busy breaking up fights, and the teachers all looked worn from their nightly patrols. Harry tried to keep his head down. Most of the school still suspected he was the Heir of Slytherin, which meant that he was mostly treated to nothing worse than dirty looks, everyone being too scared to confront Harry directly.

Harry watched a bunch of first year students scurry past, avoiding his eye. If it wouldn’t have meant detention for a week, Harry would have been sorely tempted to pull out his wand and cast some fireworks, just to watch them run away. He was tired of being treated like he was dangerous.

Then Harry stopped, right in the middle of the corridor.

Goyle didn’t, and knocked Harry right off his feet. Harry scrambled up, ignoring the hand Goyle held out to him. He grabbed Draco’s arm, almost pulling the pale boy to the ground as well.

“Potter, what the hell—?”

“Look!” Harry hissed, pointing to the first years trickling into the Transfiguration classroom.

“So?” said Draco. “What?”

“Where’s Ginny Weasley?” said Harry.

Draco stared.

They watched the first years troop past. The crowd was larger than usual; the Gryffindors had Transfiguration together with the Ravenclaws. But among all the students that walked past them, there was no sign of the bright red hair of little Ginny Weasley.

Draco snapped his fingers and pointed, and Crabbe reached out and grabbed a first year boy by the arm. Colin Creevey squeaked, but was easily dragged over. Crabbe held the mousy-haired boy by his collar, and turned him to face Draco and Harry.

“Where’s Weasley?” Draco asked, without preamble.

“What?” Creevey yelped.

“Ginny Weasley,” Harry repeated, “why isn’t she here? Where’s she gone?”

Creevey looked around, his eyes going wide. “She—she’s _not?_ ” he gasped. “Where—?”

Harry and Draco didn’t stay to watch the Gryffindor boy panic. Leaving Creevey thrashing in Crabbe’s grasp, they turned and pelted away down the corridor.

“Hey, wait, what should I do with—?”

Harry and Draco didn’t stop to answer Crabbe’s question, but ran as fast as they could down the stairs to the entrance hall. They went straight to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom and banged through the door. Myrtle shot out of her stall, screeching with outrage. “What are you doing? You can’t be in here! You’re _boys!_ Go away!”

They ignored the angry ghost and checked inside every stall, slamming the doors open one by one. The bathroom was empty. The boys checked again, more carefully this time. Harry peered under the sinks and Draco stood on his tiptoes to look over the top of the shelves, but they were the only three people in there—themselves, and the dead girl. No redheads, no Gryffindors, no Ginny Weasley.

Harry and Draco stopped and looked at one another. Harry felt suddenly tired. They were too late to get to Defense on time now, and what the punishment would be for skipping class under the new rules, Harry didn’t want to imagine.

“We’d better think up a good story to tell Lockhart,” Harry said, sighing.

“We’ll tell him we were trying to catch the monster,” Draco said, shrugging. “Just make sure you flatter him with lots of talk about how it was all because of ‘his great example,’ and ‘all we’ve learned this year,’ that made us want to try it ourselves. The stupid git should eat that up.”

Harry shook his head. “Let’s hope so,” he said.

They trudged slowly out of the bathroom and up the stairs to Lockhart’s office, ready to get this over with. “You do the talking,” Draco muttered, “he practically worships you.”

Harry grimaced. “Fine,” he said, “but you’re better at that kind of thing than I am.”

“Obviously,” Draco smirked, “but it’s only Lockhart. You’ll do fine.”

Harry shook his head again, but didn’t argue. Draco had a point.

Then someone screamed.

Harry sprinted around the corner, Draco reluctantly following. In the middle of the hallway a small crowd stood, staring at something on the ground. Harry slowed to a walk, but couldn’t stop himself from moving closer. For once, the first year students didn’t scatter at his approach: they were too transfixed by the crumpled form in front of them. Lying on the ground was a girl, every bit as still as the monster’s Petrified victims, but oddly limp.

Harry stared, as silent as the stricken first year students. Draco edged up behind him, so close that Harry could hear him swallow, but he said nothing.

“What’s all this? What’s going on here?”

Percy Weasley, the Gryffindor Prefect, came striding up the hallway. “Come on now,” Weasley said, “stop dawdling, let’s move along, you all have places to be...” He came up behind the first years and, peering over their heads, saw the curly-haired corpse on the ground.

Weasley’s freckled face went white. “Penny?” he whispered.

A Ravenclaw stepped forward and knelt down, her blonde hair brushing the floor as she leaned down to the motionless girl’s face. She looked up, protuberant eyes wide, and met Harry’s gaze without blinking.

“She’s dead,” the Ravenclaw said simply.

“No,” Weasley barked, shoving his way through the first year students. “No, she can’t be, I just saw her, she was fine, Penny, Penny wake up, please,” he pleaded, dropping to his knees and gathering the limp girl in his arms. “Penelope, wake up!”

The other students edged away. Harry saw tears trickle past the edges of Weasley’s horn-rimmed glasses, and he felt something like ice settle into the pit of his stomach. His mouth had gone too dry to speak, but he couldn’t swallow. He wished he’d never skipped Defense Against the Dark Arts. He could be sitting at lunch right now, blissfully unaware of this tragedy.

Quiet footsteps drew Harry’s attention mercifully away from the weeping prefect. Ginny Weasley came around the corner, and hurried over to join the other first years. “What’s going on?” she whispered to Colin Creevey. “I had to stop at the bathroom, what did I miss...?”

Then the crowd shifted, and Ginny spotted Penelope in her brother’s arms. Her brown eyes went wide, her face went white, and she crumpled into a dead faint.

 

The halls of Hogwarts seemed strangely cold and still. Harry knew that there were teachers on patrol, but he and Draco didn’t spot a single one on their way up to the hospital wing. Harry held tight to the edge of his Invisibility Cloak anyway, just in case.

They tiptoed down the long hallway that led to the hospital. Harry reached out his hand toward the tall double doors—and one opened.

Harry and Draco scrambled backwards, tripping over the trailing hem of the cloak, and pressed themselves against the wall. Harry stood as still as he could, barely daring to breathe.

Professor Snape stepped out of the door, followed by McGonagall. Both were still dressed in their usual robes, despite the late hour. McGonagall was scowling, and seemed to have been in the middle of speaking.

“—sense, Severus.” She shut the hospital door, then crossed her arms, standing in front of it.

Snape turned around to face her. “The girl was wandering the halls alone,” he insisted, looking nearly as cross as McGonagall. “Detention is the only appropriate response.”

“And I said that I refuse,” McGonagall replied. “As the girl is in my house, any punishment is my responsibility.”

“And how are the students to learn responsibility if they are let off after the worst infractions, for no better reason than soft-hearted sympathy?” Snape sneered.

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. “I will not deny that the child should not have gone off alone,” McGonagall began.

“For an entire class period,” interrupted Snape sharply.

“Yes,” said McGonagall, “I know, Severus. It was my class she missed.”

“Well then—”

“Because she was in the bathroom, throwing up,” McGonagall continued, as if she had not heard him. “Do you think she’s lying?”

“No,” Snape admitted, “obviously not. I didn’t need Poppy’s appraisal to know the girl is sickly. But that’s no excuse,” he continued firmly. “The dangers of wandering the halls alone—”

“Are, I imagine, quite painfully apparent to Miss Weasley right now,” McGonagall said. “I believe that I can say with reasonable certainty that the child has learned her lesson.”

Snape’s expression was sour.

“She has been warned, and points have been taken,” McGonagall continued, “and I think that is a perfectly suitable response. Poppy wants to keep her under observation for a day or two; I believe we can count that as time served. Whether you agree or not is, in fact, immaterial Severus, but thank you for your interest in the matter.” McGonagall gave him a curt smile.

“Any time,” Snape drawled, unhappily.

“Now,” said Professor McGonagall, voice brisk, “Albus will be waiting on us. We have to decide what to do about tomorrow, yet.”

“After you,” Snape sneered. McGonagall gave the Potions Master a withering look and swept away down the hallway, Snape following in her wake.

Harry and Draco stayed where they were, pressed against the wall, for several minutes. Only when Harry was certain that Snape and McGonagall were too far away to hear him did he yank the cloak off. They both gulped air, and Harry wiped his sweaty face on the sleeve of his jumper.

“That was close!” Draco whispered.

“Yeah.” Harry cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said again, “way too close.”

“Good thing you’ve got this cloak!” Draco said.

Harry nodded. “Good thing,” he whispered, and tugged on the doorknob. It didn’t so much as rattle. Harry frowned, and pulled out his wand. “Alohamora,” he whispered, and tried again. It still didn’t budge.

“Let me try.” Draco pushed him out of the way and drew his own wand. “Alohamora,” he said, giving the spell an extra little flourish on the end. Nothing happened. The door remained shut tight.

“Why isn’t it working?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know,” said Draco. “They must have jinxed the doors, I guess, to stop people getting in.” He scowled, and gave the offending slab of wood a kick.

“Shh!” said Harry, and threw the cloak over them both again.

“Relax,” Draco said, “there’s no one around to—”

Harry clapped a hand over Draco’s mouth. The door opened, inches in front of their faces.

Madame Pomfrey peered out of the infirmary, her face drawn in a frown and her wand raised. She looked down one end of the corridor and then the other, squinting suspiciously. Harry didn’t dare move. If Pomfrey took so much as a step across the threshold, she would run right into them.

Finally, seeing nothing, the hospital matron drew back inside, pulling the door closed behind her.

Harry took a deep breath of relief. “Come on,” he muttered, “let’s go. There’s no way in.”

Draco sighed. “I guess not,” he grumbled, and let Harry lead the way back to the dungeons.

 

Breakfast the next morning was a solemn affair. Several students arrived with red eyes and runny noses, especially at the Ravenclaw table; Penelope Clearwater had been a prefect, and well-liked by her housemates. The usual babble of talk was a dull hum, even the Slytherins subdued by her death in a way they had not been by any of the previous attacks.

There was no doubt in Harry’s mind that the same monster was responsible, although Draco insisted that there was no proof of that. Harry thought his friend just didn’t want to admit that he had misjudged the Heir.

The light beating of many wings broke the tense silence that hung over the Great Hall. Heads looked up to watch the arrival of the owls bearing the morning mail. Harry wondered how many letters there would be tomorrow, once the students’ parents found out that one of them had died.

He wondered what Penelope Clearwater’s parents would do, and shuddered. He drank a lot of pumpkin juice very quickly, and coughed.

A large, speckled, tawny-colored owl made for Harry’s section of the Slytherin table, and perched haughtily at Draco’s side. The big green blob of sealing wax on the owl’s parchment made the origin of its delivery immediately obvious, and Draco hurried to unfurl his letter from home. Harry nudged a spare water goblet towards the eagle owl, andBowmandeigned to hoot once in thanks before bending to drink.

Halfway through his letter, Draco put his fork down and grabbed the parchment with both hands. His pointed face broke into a grin, incongruous with the grim mood of the Great Hall.

“What is it?” Harry asked. Draco shook his head, ignoring Harry, and kept reading. Harry impatiently shoveled eggs into his mouth and waited for Draco to finish.

Finally he folded the parchment back up and slipped it inside his robes. He chuckled, as if very pleased by something, but wouldn’t tell Harry what. A few people looked at Draco curiously, but fortunately they were seated facing the wall, and no one at the other tables had noticed his good mood. Harry wondered what could possibly have cheered Draco up so much, when a girl was dead.

“You’ll see,” Draco said mysteriously. “Today’s going to be a really good day.”

And that was all Draco would say, no matter how much Harry, Goyle, and Crabbe pestered him to explain that bizarre statement.

Harry was trying to decide whether or not he wanted a third piece of toast when he looked up to see Professor Dumbledore striding up the long aisle between the tables. He was followed by McGonagall, looking grim.

A low murmur rose from the students as more and more heads turned to watch the Headmaster. Dumbledore did not often dine with the students at breakfast, and seeing him up on the dais now, accompanied by all four heads of house, made Harry’s stomach flip-flop. This had to have something to do with Penelope Clearwater.

Harry regretted eating so much. He looked over his shoulder at the other tables, realizing for the first time that he had been one of the first people on the scene when Penelope was found. He wondered how many people were talking about him, and if any of them thought that he had killed her. Harry felt sick and tried to shrink down in his seat. He wished he was sitting next to Crabbe, rather than Draco; Harry was a little shorter than the pale blond boy, but he was a _lot_ shorter than Crabbe, and certainly much skinnier. Draco was too scrawny to hide behind.

Dumbledore bent for a moment in conference with the heads of houses. Lockhart hovered on the edge, trying to look important and included, but McGonagall and Snape put their shoulders together, blocking him out. Everyone else at the front table was quiet and somber, listening to the headmaster.

A hush fell over the Great Hall when Dumbledore stood up, so that he did not even need to ask for quiet. He stared out at the silent students for a moment. Harry thought that behind the half-moon spectacles, Dumbledore’s bright blue eyes looked sad.

“Students,” Dumbledore said, “this is a sorrowful time. The are dark shadows over our school, and weighty losses. I know this year has been hard for some of you most especially...” His eyes flicked towards the Ravenclaw table, and the Gryffindors, and even briefly took in the Hufflepuffs—all the places where there were students missing. Harry looked down. Dumbledore’s voice was heavy when he continued, saying, “but truly this is a trial for us all.

“In the face of such tribulations, such horror and grief,” he headmaster continued gravely, “we must all of us be vigilant, and steel ourselves against—”

Dumbledore’s words cut off as the heavy doors at the end of the Great Hall opened with an echoing bang. Harry, along with every other student, turned around to stare at who had dared interrupt the headmaster’s speech. Caretaker Filch, looking overwhelmed, clung uselessly to one of the swinging door handles.

Through the open doors, striding forward like he owned the school, came Lucius Malfoy.

Everyone whispered and muttered, several students leaning over to share with their less-informed neighbors the identity of the tall, blond-haired wizard. As the information traveled through the Great Hall, more and more people turned to look at Draco. So did Harry and, a beat later, Crabbe and Goyle too.

Draco preened under the attention. He didn’t look surprised.

“Is this what your letter was about?” Harry asked quietly. “Your dad told you he was coming?”

Draco nodded lazily, a superior smirk on his face as he watched his father march up to the dais. Professor McGonagall half-stood, moving up behind the headmaster, her expression dubious. Dumbledore looked politely interested, his head cocked slightly to one side and his hands neatly folded in front of him. In his seat at Dumbledore’s left hand, Snape’s face was completely blank.

“Lucius,” Professor Dumbledore said pleasantly, “this is a surprise.”

“A surprise to us all,” Lucius Malfoy said smoothly, “but in a time of tragedy like this, one does what one must.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said. His faint smile was as polite as ever, but his voice had gone strangely chilly. “Perhaps we should move this conversation to my office, where we may chat in comfort?”

“As you like,” Mr. Malfoy said.

“Minerva,” Dumbledore turned to face the Transfiguration professor, “if you would just finish things up here for me?”

“Of course,” McGonagall said firmly. She pierced Lucius Malfoy with a sharp glare, and rose to step forward to the edge of the table as Dumbledore vacated it.

Mr. Malfoy half-bowed Dumbledore down from the dais, and then swept into step behind the headmaster. Snape watched them leave silently, his black eyes glittering. Lucius spared the barest of nods for his son as he passed the Slytherin table, a thin smile on his pale face; Draco mirrored the expression broadly.

Professor McGonagall, two bright red spots in her cheeks, spoke the moment the doors swung shut behind Dumbledore and Malfoy: “In light of these pervasive and escalating attacks, new rules have been set in place, until the culprit behind these horrors can be found and dealt with,” she said crisply. “All students will return to their House common room by six o’clock in the evening, immediately after dinner. No student is to leave the dormitories after that time. You will be escorted to each lesson by a teacher. No student is to use the bathroom unaccompanied by a teacher. All extra-curricular activities that cannot be restricted to your respective common rooms are canceled. All further Quidditch matches are postponed.”

For once, Slytherin was completely united with the other three houses: Harry, Draco, and every other Quidditch player and fan cried out in protest. McGonagall held up a hand, silencing the last grumble with a glare. “Students needing to use the library for academic purposes will be escorted in study groups, which your house prefects will determine as required. Morning and afternoon breaks will now be held in the Great Hall, with students permitted to sign up ahead of time for library use during those periods.

“Anyone who thinks they might have information relevant to these attacks should come forward immediately. There is nothing more important than restoring Hogwarts to being a place of safety. If we cannot, the school will have to be closed. Students,” she continued briskly, “you will now please follow your heads of house back to your common rooms. Gryffindor prefects, you will lead your house. I will meet you all there shortly.”

McGonagall climbed off the dais and swept down the aisle, hurrying out after Dumbledore.

There was a long moment where everyone just stared.

“Right!” Professor Flitwick squeaked, “everyone off to their common rooms, now! Ravenclaws, follow me please!”

The Ravenclaws rose in silence and trailed their diminutive head of house from the hall. When Flitwick walked past him, Harry noticed that the small professor’s eyes were red.

The other houses left in a great babble of talk and confusion. Snape led the Slytherins at a brisk pace, and Harry had to trot to keep up. Several people tried to stop Draco and ask if he knew why his father was here, but he gave a superior smirk and said nothing. With Crabbe on one side of him and Goyle on the other, Draco made it out of the Great Hall without being waylaid. Harry hurried to follow.

“What’s going on?” he asked his friend quietly, when they were safely within the labyrinthine corridors of the dungeon.

“Dumbledore’s gone,” Draco replied.

Harry frowned. “What?” he said. “Gone where?”

“Gone from Hogwarts,” Draco said. “The Governors have suspended him. At father’s urging, of course.” He beamed with pride and delight, but Harry’s heart sank. Without Dumbledore, how long would Hogwarts last?


	16. The Writing on the Wall

With Dumbledore gone, fear had spread as never before, so that the dull spring sun warming the castle walls outside seemed to stop at the mulioned windows. Even Snape, skulking around the potions room, looked subdued, his usual dour expression sullen.

The only person who seemed truly cheerful was Draco, who was now strutting around the school as though he had just been appointed Head Boy. He accepted his housemates’ accolades as freely as if he had been the one who sent Dumbledore away, not his father. Harry forced himself to smile and pretend that he was happy, too.

“I always thought Father might be the one who got rid of Dumbledore,” Draco said. They were supposed to be working on their potions, but Draco didn’t bother to keep his voice down; Snape never chastised Draco for talking out of turn, the way he did the rest of the class. “I told you he thinks Dumbledore’s the worst headmaster the school’s ever had,” Draco continued. “Maybe we’ll get a decent headmaster now. Someone who won’t _want_ the Chamber of Secrets closed. McGonagall won’t last long, she’s only filling in...”

Snape swept past Harry, making no comment about Draco’s bragging.

“Sir,” said Draco loudly, “Sir, why don’t _you_ apply for the headmaster’s job?”

“Now, now, Malfoy,” said Snape, though he couldn’t suppress a thin-lipped smile. “Professor Dumbledore has only been suspended by the governors. I daresay he’ll be back with us soon enough.”

“Yeah, right,” said Draco, smirking. “I expect you’d have Father’s vote, sir, if you wanted to apply for the job— _I’ll_ tell Father you’re the best teacher here, sir—”

Snape smirked as he swept off around the dungeon, unfortunately not spotting Seamus Finnegan, who was pretending to vomit into his cauldron.

“I’m quite surprised the Muggle-borns haven’t all packed their bags by now,” Draco went on. “After what happened to Clearwater, I’d have thought they’d have run home to mummy—although I suppose with mummy being a Muggle, there’s not much she could do to protect them, is there?” Draco laughed. “Still, it’s kind of a commentary on their intelligence, don’t you think? Or maybe lack thereof—I mean, Thomas certainly exemplifies the general stupidity of that sort of people, and we all know Granger only sounds smart because she swallows her textbooks—”

The bell rang at that moment, which was lucky; at Draco’s last words, Finnegan and Weasley had both leapt off their stools, but in the scramble to collect bags and books, their attempt to reach Draco was stymied by the crowd.

“Hurry up, I’ve got to take you all to class,” barked Snape over the class’s heads, and off they marched, with Harry peering nervously over his shoulder. They made it to the Great Hall without incident, where Flitwick was waiting to walk the Slytherins upstairs while Snape took the Gryffindors down to Herbology.

“Come along,” Flitwick squeaked, “come along! Everyone stick together, now!”

Harry and Draco followed obediently with the other Slytherins, but only as far as the third floor. That was when they spotted Ginny Weasley leaving the hospital wing. She was very pale still, and looked as sickly as McGonagall had said. Her escort, Mr. Filch, looked almost as miserable.

Draco grabbed Harry’s arm. “Look!” he gasped, “Weasley!”

“Yeah, I see her, but we can’t talk to her now...”

But Draco wasn’t listening. “You two keep going,” he whispered to Crabbe and Goyle. “If Flitwick notices that Potter and I aren’t there, tell him that...tell him that Potter wanted to see his friend Granger in hospital. Flitwick should eat that sentimental nonsense right up.”

Harry frowned. He wouldn’t have minded visiting Hermione in the hospital wing, although he suspected that there probably wasn’t much point in talking to a Petrified person.

“You two are so thick, no one would suspect you capable of making up lies,” Draco told Crabbe and Goyle, who nodded obediently. “At least, not any good ones.” Draco smirked. “Come on Potter, let’s go catch a Weasel.”

“But...” Harry protested, but not very hard. He didn’t want to get in trouble for skipping class, but exposing the Heir of Slytherin, and saving Hogwarts, was more important. He just hoped they didn’t get caught.

They hurried down the hallway in the direction that Filch and Ginny had taken. “Shh!” said Draco, stopping Harry before he could turn the corner. The two boys carefully peered out, and saw the caretaker and the Gryffindor halfway down the corridor. No one else was in sight, all the classroom doors shut tight and the other students (including Fred and George Weasley) safely escorted to their next lessons.

“How do we get her away from Filch?” Harry asked, barely breathing.

Draco drew his wand. “Watch this,” he whispered.

Before Harry could even think about stopping his friend, Draco had pointed his wand at Filch and muttered, “Stupefy!”

A jet of red light shot out of Draco’s wand and caught Mr. Filch in the center of his back. He stiffened and fell to the floor. Ginny Weasley gasped.

Harry and Draco sprinted towards her down the corridor. “Don’t...move,” Draco panted, his wand pointed at the Gryffindor girl.

“What did you do?” she said, staring at the motionless form of Mr. Filch.

Draco grinned. “Brilliant, right?” he asked, speaking more to Harry than Ginny. “Father taught me that one this summer, I haven’t had a chance to actually use it yet...worked pretty well, don’t you think?”

Harry stared, slack-jawed. “We’re going to be in detention until we die,” he whispered.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Nonsense,” he said, “only if we get caught. And it’s not like Weasley here is going to tell on us—because then _we’ll_ tell what weknow about _her_.”

Ginny frowned at them. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“We know you weren’t in the bathroom when that Ravenclaw died,” Draco said.

“We checked,” Harry explained. “We saw you weren’t with the other Gryffindors, so we went looking to find you, and we looked in the bathroom, and you weren’t there.”

“I—I was in a different one,” Ginny said. She sounded strangely stiff.

“Liar,” Draco snorted.

“It doesn’t really matter where you were, though,” Harry said gently. “We know why you were hiding.”

Ginny’s wide brown eyes fixed on Harry. “Why?” she breathed.

“You know who the Heir of Slytherin is,” Draco said, his pointed face gleeful. “You have to tell us—and if you don’t, we’ll tell Snape everything.”

“I...I don’t know,” Ginny protested, her freckled face paling dramatically. “I don’t know who it is,” she insisted. She sounded on the verge of tears.

Harry had to fight a pang of sympathy. He reminded himself that Hermione had been hurt, and another girl was dead. If they didn’t find the Heir, Hogwarts would be closed, and he would have to go back to the Dursleys forever.

“You’re lying,” Harry said, as sternly as he could. “And you’re really bad at it,” he added apologetically.

“Where’s your diary?” Draco asked.

Ginny clutched her school bag to her chest. “What?” she gasped. The girl looked nervously back and forth between Harry and Draco. Harry was reminded strongly of a cornered animal, and got ready to block her if she tried to run.

Draco grabbed Ginny’s school bag and tried to tug it away from her. “No!” Ginny yelped, and yanked it away from him. “Okay,” she cried, “okay, I’ll tell you!” She wrapped her arms around her bag, holding it tight to her chest. “I’ll tell you everything.” Ginny swallowed hard. Her face went slack in defeat.

“Brilliant,” said Draco.

Harry couldn’t stop himself grinning in victory. “Cool,” he said.

“Just, not here,” Ginny continued. She looked down at the motionless form of Mr. Filch. A thin line of drool connected his face to the stone floor. “It’s too dangerous,” Ginny said flatly. “Meet me in the bathroom after midnight.”

Harry and Draco exchanged a silent look.

“Okay,” Draco said slowly, “but you better not try and double-cross us.”

“I won’t,” Ginny promised.

“Because if you do,” Harry warned her, “we’ll tell Snape, and then you’ll be in trouble. If you tell us, we won’t tell anyone how we found out who the Heir is. Promise,” he said, crossing his fingers behind his back just in case.

Ginny nodded, staring up miserably at Harry. “Okay,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, grinning awkwardly, “of course.”

Filch twitched and gave a great, rattling snore. All three students jumped.

“Come on,” Draco muttered, tugging Harry’s arm. “Let’s get out of here before he wakes up. With any luck, he’ll think it was Peeves who stunned him—or her brothers.”

Ginny glared, and opened her mouth, but Draco cut her off:

“Remember,” he said, “if you tell on us, we’ll tell on you.”

“I remember,” Ginny said sullenly.

“Good.” Draco smirked.

“Just say you ran away when Filch fell down, because you were scared,” Harry suggested. “Then no one will think you saw anything—”

Filch snorted.

“Come on!” Draco pulled on Harry’s arm, and he let his friend drag him away. They ran down the hallway as fast as they dared. Just before he turned the corner, Harry glanced back. There was no sign of Ginny Weasley anywhere.

“Hurry up,” said Draco, and led the way to the hospital wing’s large double doors.

“What are you doing?” Harry hissed.

“Confirming our story,” Draco said breezily, and knocked on the door. “Come on,” he said, pushing Harry in front of him. “Granger’s _your_ friend, you do the talking. Make it convincing. And pathetic,” he added.

Harry glared at Draco, then turned around quickly at the sound of a latch. Madame Pomfrey pushed the door open a crack and peered out.

“Um,” said Harry, “um, I wanted to...can I visit my friend?” he asked, with an ingratiating smile. “Hermione Granger, she was one of the—you know—people attacked. Please? I...I miss her,” he whined.

“No,” said Madame Pomfrey, “I’m sorry, there’s every chance the attacker might come back to finish these people off. We aren’t letting any visitors in.”

“Please?” Harry asked again, trying to snivel. He stopped blinking, so that his eyes would water. Draco, standing next to him, nodded earnestly. “She’s my—she’s _our_ friend,” Harry said. “We just want to see her...”

Madame Pomfrey shook her head. “No,” she said severely, “no exceptions, I’m sorry, we just can’t take any more chances. Not after—after what—” Pomfrey hiccoughed, then quickly scowled again. “Besides, what are you two doing here? You’re supposed to be in class, not wandering around on your own! Have you no sense?”

Harry opened his mouth, but he was saved having to try and come up with an explanation by the squeaky voice of Professor Flitwick.

“There you are! Potter! Malfoy! Good gracious, boys, we’ve been looking everywhere for you! What were you thinking?”

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Harry said, “we just...wanted to see our friend...” His eyes burned, but Harry refused to blink; they felt very watery. He hoped Flitwick would notice.

“We miss her,” Draco added, his wide-eyed expression painfully sincere.

Flitwick’s scowl crumpled. “Oh, boys,” he said gently, “of course you do. This has been hard on everyone, but those who know the victims the best, of course...” Flitwick shook his head. “Of course it must be hardest of all on you.”

Harry nodded hard, Draco joining in quickly. “Very hard,” Harry whispered, blinking furiously.

“Poppy,” Flitwick said, stepping in front of the boys so that he could look at the hospital matron through the crack in the door, “surely we can bend the rules a little...the circumstances are hard enough on the students already...”

Madame Pomfrey frowned, but reluctantly let the door ease open a little wider. “There’s just no point visiting a Petrified person,” the matron insisted.

Flitwick nodded kindly. “No point,” he squeaked, “for the victim...but sometimes offering comfort, even to one too afflicted to notice it, can be of great comfort to the one offering.”

Pomfrey sniffed disagreeably, but she let Harry and Draco slip past her into the infirmary. “Thanks, Professor,” Harry said to Flitwick. The diminutive professor beamed sympathetically, his eyes moist. “Of course, my boy,” he said, “of course. If only we could do more...”

Flitwick sighed, and turned away. “I have to get back to the rest of my class,” they heard him telling Pomfrey, “can you keep an eye on the boys, Poppy?”

“Very well,” Madame Pomfrey agreed grudgingly.

Harry looked around the hospital wing. He hadn’t been inside since his disastrous Quidditch match. Harry wondered what had happened to the crazy elf who was trying to kill him, but decided that as long as it didn’t come back, it didn’t really matter why it was gone.

There were more occupied beds now than there had been: In addition to the two girls who had made fun of Harry for not being as cool as Cormac McLaggen, there was Dean Thomas one row over, something that looked like binoculars clamped in his frozen hands. Hermione, in the exact same rigid pose that Harry had seen in the flooded bathroom, was two beds away from him. Harry felt his heart skip a beat, and realized that there was no bed for Penelope Clearwater because she was dead. He wondered where they were keeping her body, then wished he’d never thought of that. Harry shivered.

Draco led the way over to the bed where Hermione lay. He sneered. “Look at her,” he said, “she looks like an idiot gaping like that...”

“Well I bet she was pretty surprised to be Petrified,” Harry said shortly. “How calm do you think you’d be?”

“Relax, Harry,” Draco protested, “I was only saying...”

“Well don’t,” said Harry shortly. Draco frowned, but fell silent.

Harry stared down at his friend. Her bushy hair was lank and tangled from its soaking, and her robes were rumpled. Harry reached out and tried to tug Hermione’s collar straight, but she was as stiff as a statue and it wouldn’t budge.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered, although he was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about the collar.

“So how long do you think we have to stay here before they buy it?” Draco whispered, watching Madame Pomfrey out of the corner of his eyes. The hospital matron bustled around, but Harry had the feeling that she was only acting busy to allow the three of them some privacy. There obviously wasn’t a lot to do for a Petrified person.

“Why’d you have to write that stupid valentine?” Harry asked suddenly.

Draco blinked. “I didn’t know she’d be attacked,” he said, shrugging uncomfortably. “And it was pretty funny, you have to admit...”

Harry shook his head. “It’s stupid,” he said. “She didn’t do anything. Why did the Heir attack her?”

“Maybe she outscored him on a test?” Draco suggested.

Harry glared. “That’s stupid,” he said.

Draco shrugged again. “Well,” he said, “wait until midnight. Then you can go ask him yourself.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah,” he said darkly, “I think I will...”

 

Harry kept checking his watch all through dinner, trying to will the second hand to go faster. Draco quietly outlined the plan to Crabbe and Goyle—they were to come along and stand guard, to make sure that Ginny Weasley didn’t try to run away, and for muscle in case she had brought any of her brothers along—but Harry barely listened. As far as he was concerned, midnight couldn’t possibly come fast enough.

He only looked up when Draco nudged him in the side. Harry tore his eyes away from his watch, and joined the rest of the students in peering up at the staff table, where some sort of commotion was underway. McGonagall was bent in hurried conversation with the other teachers, and for once even Lockhart’s smiling face was bleak.

After only a few seconds, Professor McGonagall straightened up. She raised her hands for quiet; a tense silence settled over the Great Hall. Harry held his breath.

“You will all please return to your house dormitories at once,” McGonagall announced sternly. “Teachers, you will all accompany me to the staff room. If I catch word of any student idling, I will see to it that he or she never sets foot outside my office again. Prefects, please lead your houses from the hall. Immediately.” McGonagall blinked at the hundreds of pairs of eyes fixed on her. “Now!” she barked, and the students lurched into motion.

Even Crabbe and Goyle didn’t dare delay to shovel in a few last bites, not with Professor McGonagall glaring like that. Her mouth was the thinnest of thin lines, and there were angry red spots in her cheeks. For a moment Harry thought she was going to explode, but instead she turned on her heel and hurried off through the side door, the other teachers scrambling to follow.

The students moved even faster, running to their common rooms in a panic. Everyone was talking at once, trying to figure out who was missing. They all knew that the only reason for Professor McGonagall to make an announcement like that was if someone else had been attacked.

“No,” Harry whispered, aghast, “not now...”

Harry was jostled every-which-way by the crowd as people struggled to find their friends, and to escape the Great Hall as fast as possible.

“Colin, where’s Colin, has anyone seen—?”

“Marietta, where are you?”

“Do you see my sister—does anyone see my sister?”

“I’m here, I’m right here, don’t worry—”

“Ron, look after Ginny for me; I have to see to the rest of the house, you know.”

“Well she’s not with me!”

“Just find her, Ron!” Percy Weasley, the Gryffindor prefect, was trying to maintain order amongst his housemates. Ron Weasley, looking sullen, waded against the tide of students pushing out of the hall. The red-haired boy was so distracted, he pushed right past Harry without noticing him. Harry ducked behind Goyle just in case. This chaos would be the perfect opportunity for Weasley to try and extract some payback without being seen, and Harry didn’t want to tempt him.

“Hey—I can’t find her! Ginny, where are you? Ginny?”

“Ginny, this isn’t funny! Ginny!”

“George, have you seen—”

“I’m looking, Perce, don’t shout, she’s probably run up to the tower already...”

“I didn’t see her go by. Are you sure she’s not over by—”

“I looked already, she’s not here—”

“Ginevra! If you’re playing a joke, I am going to tell mother!”

“Has anyone seen Ginny? Ginny!”

Harry and Draco exchanged stricken looks of mute panic. “Oh, no,” Harry said. Draco, his face white, swallowed hard. On the far side of the room, the Weasley brothers continued searching for their little sister, their voices growing more panicked by the moment. Harry’s stomach felt like a solid block of ice. He allowed the tide of Slytherin students to pull him away down the stairs.

Nearly three-quarters of an hour went by before the secret stone door slid open to let Snape into the dungeon. His sallow face was paler than usual, and his expression stony. Every student in the common room turned to face the Potions Master. No one spoke.

Snape stared at the students, his black eyes cold. Finally he spoke, his voice flat: “A student has been taken into the Chamber of Secrets,” he said. “Do not panic,” he continued, over the sound of their gasps. “You are all perfectly safe in here, and the halls will be guarded and patrolled tonight. No one is to leave, for any reason, until I return to escort you to breakfast. In the morning, the train will be arriving to take you all home, so it would be best if you could stay calm and pack your things. Your parents will be notified to collect you at the station. We want to close the school in as orderly a fashion as possible,” he said sourly, “so the more prepared all of you are, the better.”

Snape turned to go, but paused at the door as the students erupted with questions. One rang out above the rest: “Who was taken?”

For a moment, Snape stood motionless, facing the door. He glanced back over his shoulder, his piercing eyes hooded. “It was one of the Gryffindors,” Snape said, “and I have no doubt that you will all learn the precise details soon enough. I, however, will not intrude upon the privacy of those most grievously afflicted by this latest, and final, tragedy, for the sake of gossip. Good night.” He nodded at them all, then swept out of the room before anyone else could speak.

Harry collapsed against the sofa cushions. He was being sent back to the Dursleys.

Harry wondered what would happen if he refused to go, if he said that he would rather risk the monster than go back to life at Number Four Privet Drive. Would they let him stay? Maybe he could live in Hagrid’s hut. Someone had to look after Fang, after all, and it didn’t seem likely that Hagrid would be let out of Azkaban any time soon—

But no, he was underage. He wouldn’t be allowed to stay, because if the school was closed, Harry wouldn’t be allowed to do magic on the grounds any longer. Harry swallowed hard and drew his wand. Was tonight the last day this was going to be anything more than a fancy stick? Had he already cast his last spell, without knowing it? Was he going to spend the rest of his life as a Muggle?

The hand on his wand trembled. It wasn’t fair, they had been about to figure out who the Heir was, about to end all of this. If only the Heir had picked anyone other than Ginny Weasley to kidnap...

Harry suddenly sat up. Was it his fault, his and Draco’s, that Ginny had been taken? Had the Heir figured out, somehow, that Ginny was about to betray him? Had Harry just gotten the girl killed?

He flopped back again, limp with despair. Around Harry, there was a quiet bustle as students started packing their trunks, but Harry hardly noticed. He couldn’t bring himself to move, or to care. If Hogwarts was closed, then nothing else mattered.

Slowly the students trickled out of the common room. The hours ticked by slowly, Privet Drive growing nearer with every moment. Harry thought about getting up and practicing magic until the very last moment, but couldn’t bear it. If he was going to spend the rest of his life as a Muggle, better to start now, rather than have his last memories of magic be tinged with bitterness.

Harry was jolted out of his despair by a kick on the ankle.

“Hey,” Draco whispered, nodding at the door to their dormitory, “shouldn’t you get the cloak?”

“What?” said Harry, blinking dully.

“The Invisibility Cloak,” Draco said, speaking as slowly as if he was trying to explain Transfiguration to Goyle. “Shouldn’t you go get that, while no one’s looking?”

Harry just stared. “What for?” he asked blankly.

“So they don’t catch us sneaking around,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “We’ll definitely need it now, to go anywhere without the teachers seeing us.”

“Where are we going?” said Harry, feeling stupid.

“To the bathroom,” Draco said. “Obviously.”

“What for?” Harry asked. “Who do you think is going to be there? Draco, she’s probably dead by now—”

“Unless she’s hiding,” Draco said simply.

“What?”

“What if she’s just hiding from us?” Draco suggested. “What if she made it up?”

Harry stared at his friend. He shook his head. “You’re mental,” he said.

“The only evidence we have that she was actually taken into the Chamber,” Draco said insistently, “is that there was a message painted on the wall, like with Mrs. Norris. Anyone could have put that there.”

“What message?” Harry asked.

“The one left on the wall, right by the one about Filch’s cat,” Draco explained. “Weren’t you listening to Parkinson just now?”

“No,” Harry admitted. “I wasn’t paying attention to anyone.”

“Well you’re an idiot,” Draco told him. “Pansy said that she heard that there was a message painted on the wall. Some Hufflepuff left dinner to go to the bathroom, so of course Sprout had to escort her, and that’s when they saw the message about Weasley being taken to the Chamber.”

“What did it say?” Harry asked, curious in spite of himself.

“I don’t know exactly, something about her skeleton being hidden inside, I think.”

Harry grimaced. “Eugh,” he said. “That’s horrible.”

“Anyway,” Draco continued, “the point is, just because someone painted on the wall, that doesn’t mean they’re the Heir of Slytherin.”

“Who else would do that, though?” Harry asked, shaking his head.

“Ginny Weasley.”

Harry stared at Draco like he had never seen him before. “That’s mental,” he said.

“It makes sense,” Draco insisted. “We bully her into agreeing to tell us about the Heir, but she’s too afraid of him and decides she wants to go back on the deal, but she knows that we’ll tell on her, or worse, so she’s too afraid to just double-cross us directly.”

“So she pretends to kidnap herself?”

“Yeah,” said Draco, “it’s the perfect cover. I mean she fooled you, didn’t she?”

Harry felt a flash of hope. “Do you think?” he asked.

Draco shrugged. “It’s possible,” he said. “It’s worth checking out at least, don’t you think? Besides, what would you rather do: spend the night packing to go back to your Muggles, or sneak around Hogwarts one last time and maybe—just maybe—stop the school from being closed?”

 

Two hours later, the secret door to the Slytherin common room slid open. There was a brief flash, as if a pair of trainers had suddenly popped into existence, and a muffled curse, and someone hissing, “shh!” Then the stones of the wall ground closed again, and the hallway was empty.

Or at least, it appeared empty. In reality four Slytherin second years walked up the corridor, holding carefully to the edges of the Invisibility Cloak that covered them. Harry, Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle crept slowly through the dark, torch-lit hallways. With all four of them crowded under the cloak, they had to move in an awkward, abbreviated sort of shuffle in order to stay close enough together for the cloak to hide them all. Staircases were impossible: their ankles showed, there was no way to avoid that. But they managed to sneak up the three flights of stairs to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom without being seen.

Harry paused, and the others with him, to study the new message. It was painted right under the words that had accompanied Mrs. Norris, so that the wall now read, in bright large letters: 

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.  
ENEMIES OF THE HEIR BEWARE.

HER SKELETON WILL LIE IN THE CHAMBER FOREVER.

Draco poked Harry in the side and hissed for him to hurry up. Harry swallowed hard, and made himself keep walking.

The door to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom creaked loudly when Harry pushed it open. The four boys shuffled inside carefully, and Harry shut the door behind them. He didn’t pull the cloak off until the door had latched. They looked around.

The bathroom was as dark and dreary as ever, although at least it wasn’t flooded tonight. There was no sign of anyone, living or dead or Petrified.

“Look around,” Draco commanded in a whisper. He pulled out his wand and muttered, “lumos,” the resulting globe of light casting eerie shadows in the mirror.

Harry lit his own wand and started down the row of stalls, checking carefully inside each one. Crabbe trailed after Draco and Goyle followed Harry, neither of the larger boys drawing their own wands; it was just as well. They weren’t really that good at magic, and probably would have bungled the spell.

As Harry approached the last stall door, he heard muffled weeping. He nodded to Goyle to be ready, and Goyle nodded back. Harry wasn’t sure if the burly boy understood, but he tightened his grip on his wand and pushed the door open.

Moaning Myrtle looked up at him, her translucent face splotchy with crying. “What are you doing here?” she shrieked.

“Shh!” Harry said quickly, “Myrtle, please be quiet! We were just—er—just—”

“Just coming to make sure you were okay,” Draco interrupted smoothly.

Myrtle frowned. “You were not,” she insisted. “No one cares about me.”

“We do,” Harry said quickly, smiling in what he hoped was an ingratiating fashion.

Myrtle gave him a scathing look and turned back to face Draco again. “Why are you really here?” she demanded.

“I told you,” Draco said, “we were worried about you. We wondered what you’re going to do, when the school is closed?”

“Well I guess I’ll just stay here and be alone,” Myrtle snapped. “I’m not allowed to haunt anywhere else.”

“Why’s that?” Harry asked, before he could think better of it.

“Because of Olive Hornby,” said Myrtle. “I haunted her, but she went to the Ministry, and they made me stop.” Myrtle sniffed petulantly. “But I made her sorry she’d ever laughed at me,” she said smugly.

“Well done,” said Draco. Harry quickly nodded along; so did Crabbe and Goyle.

“It doesn’t seem fair that you’re going to be stuck here all alone, though,” Draco continued slyly. “If only there was something we could do...”

“Well, I won’t be _alone_ ,” Myrtle admitted. “The other ghosts are staying too, and Peeves...” She made a face, then paused. “What do you mean, ‘something you could do’?” she asked.

“About the school closing,” Draco said.

“Yeah,” Harry chimed in, “we were trying to stop that, but the girl who was going to help us has disappeared. You haven’t seen her around lately, have you?” he asked, not very hopefully.

“You’re talking about Ginny Weasley,” Myrtle guessed, “the girl who’s been taken into the Chamber of Secrets.”

“Yeah,” said Harry and Draco in unison. Crabbe nodded, but Goyle already looked confused.

“She was here this afternoon,” Myrtle said, with exaggerated carelessness.

Draco’s eyes lit up. “Was anyone else with her?” he asked.

“No,” Myrtle said, and Harry’s spirits dropped. “She was alone. She’s _always_ alone,” Myrtle added conspiratorially. “I don’t think she’s got a lot of friends.” The prospect seemed to make the ghost happy, because she smiled and glowed a little brighter.

“Right,” said Harry. “Well...thanks anyway.”

Harry sighed and wandered off to check under the sinks one last time, even though he knew there was nothing to find. Draco kept flattering Myrtle, trying to get her to tell him something else, unwilling to give up. Harry was already counting up the number of things he hated about the Dursleys’ that he was going to have to get used to again, forever this time. He wondered if they would put him back in the cupboard, or if it would be too much bother to move him out of the spare bedroom.

There was a funny sort of hissing noise coming from under the sinks. Harry was reminded of the sibilant whisper of the monster. He wished now that he had told Dumbledore he could hear it. Maybe then they could have tracked it down, and found a way to kill it, whatever it was. Harry didn’t even care anymore if he got blamed or not. He would have gladly taken any punishment if it meant he could stay at Hogwarts.

Harry angrily kicked the pipes. They clanged hollowly, the noise echoing like a dull bell in the dingy chamber of the girls’ bathroom. “Be quiet!” Draco ordered, though he sounded amused. “Do you want someone to hear you?”

“All I hear are stupid hissing pipes,” Harry complained. “Ginny Weasley’s not here. She’s probably already been eaten by the monster.”

Goyle’s face went pale. “You think it ate her?” he said.

“Why else would it take someone when it usually just pet’ifies ‘em, stupid?” Crabbe asked. “It must’a been hungry.”

“Ew,” said Goyle. It appeared that even his insatiable stomach drew the line at eating red-haired Gryffindors.

Water spattered out across Harry’s legs and he yelped and jumped backwards. The others laughed at him. “Shut-up,” Harry said. He glared at the pipes, gurgling and hissing back at him. He must have knocked something loose when he kicked it, because a wispy spurt of water was causing a puddle to slowly creep across the tiled floor.

Suddenly Harry paled. “It’s a snake,” he said.

“What is?” Draco asked.

“The monster,” Harry said, staring at the hissing pipes. “The monster from the Chamber, it’s a snake. That’s why I can hear it and no one else could—it just sounded like hissing, so no one ever noticed!”

Draco’s mouth fell open, making him look comically similar to Crabbe and Goyle, who were both gaping at Harry. “Of course!” Draco cried, “it’s obvious! How did we not see that before? It’s Slytherin’s monster, after all, and Slytherin was a Parseltongue—what else could it be, but a snake?”

“But what kind of snake can petrify people?” Harry asked.

“A Basilisk,” said Goyle.

The other three turned to stare at him.

“What did you just say?” Draco asked.

Goyle’s wide face flushed all the way to his bristly hairline. He cracked his knuckles and looked down at the floor. “My...my mum told me stories, about this big snake called a Basilisk, when I was little...she said if I wasn’t good, it’d come and get me...she said it could freeze people just by lookin’ at ‘em in the eyes...an’ that’s what ‘pet-ri-fy’ means...right?” he asked, looking around nervously for approval.

“That’s what it means,” Harry said slowly, staring at Goyle. He was trying to process the fact that Gregory Goyle had just figured something out, all by himself, and answered someone else’s question. It was probably the first time in Goyle’s life that he had ever known the answer before everyone else, and most amazingly of all, he might even be right.

“Could Salazar Slytherin’s monster be a Basilisk?” Harry asked Draco, quietly, speaking out of the corner of his mouth. If Goyle’s idea was stupid, Harry didn’t want to be the one to tell him.

“Could be,” Draco shrugged. “All I know about Basilisks is that they’re really illegal, and definitely dangerous.”

Harry nodded. “Wow, Goyle, that...that was really clever,” he said aloud.

Goyle beamed. “It was?” he asked, looking as pleased as if he had just discovered an entire unattended baker’s box of cupcakes. Crabbe was staring at his friend like he had never seen him before.

“We have no way of knowing if you’re right or not, of course,” Draco added quickly, “but still...not bad.”

“It makes sense. If just looking at people petrifies them then no wonder no one’s been able to see the monster without being attacked...” Harry frowned. “But how did it kill Penelope Clearwater?”

“I died looking at eyes.”

Moaning Myrtle’s dreamy voice made everyone jump. Harry looked up to see her hovering near the ceiling.

“Sorry,” said Draco, “what did you say?”

“A great big pair of yellow eyes,” Myrtle said, her own eyes wide with excitement. “It happened right in here. I remember it so well. I’d hidden because Olive Hornby was teasing me about my glasses. The door was locked, and I was crying, and then I heard somebody come in. They said something funny. A different language, I think it must have been. Anyway, what really got me was that it was a _boy_ speaking—so I came out to yell at him, because as you know this is a girls’ bathroom and boys aren’t allowed in here.” Myrtle stared at them all, and the four boys shuffled awkwardly. “I saw a great pair of eyes staring at me,” the ghost continued breathlessly, “and then I died. Right in this very stall,” she added with relish.

“Seriously?” Draco asked. “That’s it? You just died?”

“It was very traumatic,” Myrtle assured them with glee.

“I’m sure.” Draco caught Harry’s attention and rolled his eyes. Harry grinned.

“Hang on,” Harry said, suddenly realizing something. “Myrtle...you were killed by the monster from the Chamber of Secrets, weren’t you?”

“That’s what they said,” Myrtle agreed, nodding proudly.

“You were killed right here by the monster from the Chamber of Secrets,” Harry repeated carefully. “Right here, in this very bathroom. The same bathroom that Ginny Weasley keeps crying in. Maybe the last place she was seen before she was kidnapped. The bathroom right near the spot where Mrs. Norris was attacked.”

“What are you getting at?” Draco asked.

“What if this is how you get in?” Harry looked around wildly. “What if the entrance to the Chamber is in here?”

“In this dingy old bathroom?” Draco scoffed.

Harry wasn’t listening. He started looking around again, more carefully this time. He wasn’t looking for a girl anymore, but an entrance—some clue to indicate where Salazar Slytherin might have put the door to his hidden room. “Myrtle,” Harry asked, “where did you see the eyes?”

“Over there,” Myrtle said vaguely, “by the sinks.”

Harry followed where the translucent hand pointed. It looked like an ordinary sink. Harry examined every inch of it, inside and out, including the pipes below. And then Harry saw it: Scratched on the side of one of the copper taps was a tiny snake.

“That tap’s never worked,” said Myrtle brightly as he tried to turn it.

“What did you find?” Draco came over to look, followed by the other two. They all studied the snake. “I don’t know,” Draco said dubiously, “I’d expect the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets to be a little more...imposing.”

“If it was imposing, someone would have found it years ago,” Harry argued. He poked the snake, and tapped it with his wand a few times, but nothing happened.

“It’s a snake,” Crabbe suggested, “tell it what to do.” Harry and Draco turned identical pitying looks on the burly boy. His face flushed. “Well, you’re a Parselmouth,” Crabbe muttered, “isn’t that what you do?”

“Actually...” Draco thought about it. “He might have a point. Say something in Parseltongue, see what happens.”

“But—” Harry thought hard. The only times he’d ever managed to speak Parseltongue were when he’d been faced with a real snake. He stared hard at the tiny engraving, trying to imagine it was real.

“Open up,” he said.

He looked at Draco, who shook his head.

“In Parseltongue, Potter, come on.”

Harry looked back at the snake, willing himself to believe it was alive. If he moved his head, the candlelight made it look as though it were moving.

“Open up,” he said.

Except that the words weren’t what he heard: a strange hissing had escaped him, and at once the tap glowed with a brilliant white light and began to spin. Next second, the sink began to move; the sink, in fact, sank, right out of sight, leaving a large pipe exposed, a pipe wide enough for a man to slide into.

“Harry...Harry you _found it_...”

The others were staring at him with something like reverence in their eyes.

“You found the Chamber of Secrets.”

“Pipes,” Harry said hollowly. “It’s been using the pipes all along. That’s how come it’s been able to stay hidden, and why I heard it moving through the walls. It’s just like what we did with that snake you conjured for the Gryffindors.” Harry shook his head, feeling dense.

“Well it was a brilliant idea,” Draco said proudly, even though it had been Crabbe’s idea to send their snake into the plumbing. Draco’s smile suddenly faltered, and he went pale. “We...what now?” he asked.

Harry looked down at the pipe again. He had made up his mind what he was going to do.

“I’m going down there,” he said.

“With the monster?” Goyle asked, his deep voice a whisper.

“With the monster, and Ginny Weasley, and whoever kidnapped her,” Harry said firmly. “I’m going to find out what’s going on, and I’m going to put a stop to it. No one is sending me away from Hogwarts without a fight.”

“But...won’t it be dangerous?” Goyle asked.

Harry shrugged. “Probably,” he admitted. “But I’d rather try and do something dangerous than go live with the Dursleys for the rest of my life.” He looked up at his friends. “You don’t have to come,” he told them, even though the prospect of going down there alone made Harry’s skin crawl. “Hogwarts isn’t—it’s not as important to the rest of you,” he said quietly. “But for me, it’s home.”

The three pure-blooded boys exchanged fearful looks.

“I’m going down,” Harry said with finality. “You do what you like.”

He sat down on the edge of the hole and peered inside. He couldn’t see anything.

Draco wavered, twisting his hands and grimacing. Abruptly he turned away.

“Crabbe,” he snapped, “go find Snape as fast as you can and tell him everything.”

Crabbe nodded and took off at a dead sprint, relief on his thick face.

“Goyle, come on,” Draco ordered next, ignoring the other’s expression of dismay. “You’re with us.” Goyle looked longingly at the door through which Crabbe had vanished, then trudged after Malfoy to join Harry at the sinks.

Draco sat down and gingerly slid forward to the edge of the hole, next to Harry. He looked very pale.

“Coming, then?” Harry asked, with what he hoped was an encouraging grin.

“Oh, well, I suppose someone with some sense ought to go along to stop you doing anything else stupid,” Draco said nervously. “Besides,” he scoffed confidently, “the monster isn’t going to hurt me anyway, I’m a pure-blood.” His voice wavered as he spoke.

Harry decided that now wasn’t a good time to point out that Ginny Weasley was a pure-blood, too.

“Draco, if you die down there, you’re welcome to share my toilet.”

Draco looked up at the smiling ghost, horror writ broadly across his pointed face. Harry was spared hearing Draco’s reply, because he had already pushed forward into the pipe, and let go.

It was like rushing down an endless, slimy, dark slide. He could see more pipes branching off in all directions, but none as large as theirs, which twisted and turned, sloping steeply downward, and he knew that he was falling deeper below the school than even the dungeons. Behind him he could hear Goyle, thudding heavily at the curves.

And then, just as he had begun to worry about what would happen when he hit the ground, the pipe leveled out, and he shot out of the end with a wet thud, landing on the damp floor of a dark stone tunnel large enough to stand in. Harry stood aside as Goyle came whizzing out of the pipe, followed a minute later by Draco. Goyle did not move quickly enough, and Draco thudded into the back of his legs. Goyle grunted, then helped pick Draco up off the floor and brushed him off.

“We must be miles under the school,” said Harry, his voice echoing in the black tunnel.

Draco wrinkled his nose. “Probably under the lake,” he ventured, peering around unhappily at the dark, slimy walls. Harry wasn’t sure if it was the echoes making Draco’s voice shake, and decided not to comment.

“How can we be under the lake?” Goyle asked. “We’re not underwater.”

Draco and Harry ignored him. All three boys turned to stare into the darkness ahead.

“ _Lumos!_ ” Harry muttered to his wand and it lit again. “C’mon,” he said to Draco and Goyle, and although they hesitated, they followed him, their footsteps slapping loudly on the wet floor. Draco lit his wand as well, and the two bobbing points of light made the damp walls shine. Harry tried not to think how much the slick tunnel resembled some large creature’s throat.

The tunnel was so dark that they could only see a little distance ahead. Their shadows on the wet walls looked monstrous in the wandlight.

“Remember,” Harry said quietly as they walked cautiously forward, “if you see a giant snake, don’t look it in the eyes....”

But the tunnel was quiet as the grave, and the first unexpected sound they heard was a loud _crunch_ as Goyle stepped on what turned out to be a rat’s skull. Harry lowered his wand to look at the floor and saw that it was littered with small animal bones. Trying very hard not to imagine what Ginny might look like if they found her—and what he and his friends might look like, soon—Harry led the way forward, around a dark bend in the tunnel.

“Wait—there’s something there!” said Draco shrilly. He clutched Harry’s arm.

They froze, watching. Harry could just see the outline of something huge and curved, lying right across the tunnel. It wasn’t moving.

“Maybe it’s asleep,” he breathed, glancing back at the other two. Draco’s eyes were as wide as saucers, while Goyle had his hands pressed tightly over his own, and was peering out between his thick fingers.

“Busy digesting, probably,” Draco said harshly.

Harry ignored him. He turned back to look at the thing, his heart beating so fast it hurt. He couldn’t tell which end of the creature was the head, but it must have had its big yellow eyes closed, which was the most important thing.

Very slowly, his eyes as narrow as he could make them and still see, Harry edged forward, his wand held high. He didn’t hear any footsteps following him.

The light slid over a gigantic snake skin, of a vivid, poisonous green, lying curled and empty across the tunnel floor. The creature that had shed it must have been twenty feet long at least.

Goyle swore. “You didn’t say it was the size of a—of a dragon!” Draco said, shoving him. Goyle shrugged apologetically. “My mum just said big,” he muttered.

Harry cautiously poked the skin with the toe of his old trainer. It dented like tissue paper, long-dry. “Snakes only shed their skin when they outgrow it,” he said, before he could stop himself.

Draco’s voice was shrill. “We should go back,” he said. “We’ll wait for Snape. Let the teachers handle it. Or send to the Ministry for some professionals. Father knows people who do this sort of thing, monster hunting—like Lockhart, only not pathetic...”

“We can’t go back,” Harry said. “Unless you know a way to get back up that pipe?”

Somehow Draco went even paler.

They kept walking forward, because there was no where else to go. Draco skirted the edges of the snakeskin as best he could, but Goyle just plodded across the coils, crushing the papery carapace with his heavy feet. It sounded like wrapping paper on Christmas morning, when Dudley was tearing his way through his pile of gifts. Harry winced.

“This was a really bad idea,” Draco muttered. Harry couldn’t disagree with him.

The tunnel turned and turned again. Every nerve in Harry’s body was tingling unpleasantly. He wanted the tunnel to end, yet dreaded what he’d find when it did. And then, at last, as they crept around yet another bend, he saw a solid wall ahead on which two entwined serpents were carved, their eyes set with great, glinting emeralds.

“Pretty,” Goyle observed. Harry fought the urge to smack him.

The three boys approached the serpents. Harry’s throat was strangely dry, but he knew what he had to do. There was no need to pretend these stone snakes were real; their eyes looked strangely alive.

“Ready?” Harry asked.

“No,” said Draco, and Goyle shook his head, but there was nothing else to do but go on.

Harry cleared his throat, and the emerald eyes seemed to flicker.

“ _Open_ ,” said Harry, in a low, faint hiss.

The serpents parted as the wall cracked open, the halves slid smoothly out of sight, and all three boys, shaking from head to foot, walked inside.


	17. The Heir of Slytherin

Harry and his friends were standing at the end of a very long, dimly lit chamber. Towering stone pillars entwined with more carved serpents rose to support a ceiling lost in darkness, casting long, black shadows through the odd, greenish gloom that filled the place.

His heart beating very fast, Harry stood listening to the chill silence.

“Do you hear anything?” Draco asked, crowding close. “Anything speaking Parseltongue?”

Harry shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Even his and Draco’s careful footsteps echoed loudly off the shadowy walls; Goyle’s sounded like great drumbeats. Harry kept his eyes narrowed, ready to clamp them shut at the first sign of anything bulbous and yellow. The hollow eye sockets of the stone snakes seemed to be following them. More than once, with a jolt of the stomach, Harry thought he saw one blink.

Then, as they drew level with the last pair of pillars, a statue high as the Chamber itself loomed into view, standing against the back wall.

Harry had to crane his neck to look up into the giant face above: It was ancient and monkeyish, with a long, thin beard that fell almost to the bottom of the wizard’s sweeping stone robes, where two enourmous gray feet stood on the smooth Chamber floor. And between the feet, facedown, lay a small, black-robed figure with flaming-red hair.

“Something’s wrong,” Harry whispered. “Why is she just lying there?”

“Maybe she’s faking,” Draco suggested nervously.

“Maybe she was pet’ified,” Goyle said. He looked around for the Basilisk.

Harry led the way over to the motionless girl. Draco followed so closely he kept tripping on the hem of Harry’s robes. Harry nudged Ginny Weasley gently with his foot, but she didn’t move at all. Draco kicked her in the side, but she flopped back totally limp.

“Stop that,” Harry said, and knelt down next to the girl. He placed his wand carefully to the side, where Ginny couldn’t reach it, and then took her by the shoulders and turned her over. Her face was white as marble, and as cold, yet her eyes were closed so she wasn’t Petrified. But then she must be—

Harry jerked back, dropping the limp body to the floor. He scrambled away, staring at her. “I—I think she’s dead!” he gasped.

“She’s not dead,” said a soft voice. “Not yet, anyway.” 

Harry jumped and spun around on his knees. Draco and Goyle turned so fast they ran into each other, and Draco yelped. Harry scrambled to his feet next to his friends and all three of them stared at the speaker.

A tall, black-haired boy was leaning against the nearest pillar, watching. He was strangely blurred around the edges, as though Harry was looking at him through a misted window. He looked about sixteen, and handsome, and a silver Prefect’s badge glinted on his chest.

“Who are you?” Harry asked.

The boy smiled strangely, as if he was amused and half-hurt not to be recognized. “My name...my name is Tom Riddle,” he said quietly. A crooked smirk tugged at his mouth.

“What house are you in?” Draco asked, looking him over dubiously.

“Slytherin, of course,” Riddle replied.

“You can’t be,” Draco said shortly. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“No,” Riddle said, “but Potter has...”

“How do you know me?” Harry asked. “I’ve never met you. I don’t think, anyway.”

Riddle’s eyes were fixed on Harry’s face. He hardly seemed to see the other two boys with him. “We met when you were very young,” Riddle said slowly. “I suppose you don’t recognize me now.”

“Well what are you doing down here?” Harry asked.

“Harry,” Draco tugged at his sleeve, “don’t be dense. He’s the Heir of Slytherin.”

Riddle’s smile broadened.

“But who _is_ he?” Harry turned back to Riddle. “Who are you?” he asked again. “How is it you’re in Slytherin and we’ve never met you? You’re a prefect, even. We know all our prefects. I don’t understand.”

“I’m a memory,” said Riddle simply. “I was at Hogwarts, yes, and in Slytherin, but it was a long, long time ago. I’ve been preserved in that diary for fifty years.”

He pointed toward the floor near the statue’s giant toes. Lying open there was the little black diary that Ginny Weasley was always carrying around. Harry hadn’t noticed it before, but he wasn’t surprised to see it; Ginny always seemed to have her diary with her.

“That’s Ginny Weasley’s diary,” Harry said. “How can you be a...a memory, inside it?”

“It was my diary first,” Tom Riddle said. “It came into Ginny’s hands earlier this year, and she’s been writing in it ever since.” He ambled across the floor, circling the little crowd of students, and approached the statue. He never took his eyes off Harry’s, even as he walked.

“Writing in my diary, telling me all her pitiful worries and woes—how her brothers _tease_ her, how she had to come to school with secondhand robes and books, how” —Riddle’s eyes glinted— “how she didn’t know what to make of cruel, bullying Harry Potter being kind to her...”

There was an almost hungry look in Riddle’s eyes, as they bored in to Harry.

“It’s very _boring_ , having to listen to the silly little troubles of an eleven-year-old girl,” he went on. “But I was patient. I wrote back. I was sympathetic, I was kind. Ginny simply _loved_ me. _No one’s ever understood me like you, Tom....I’m so glad I’ve got this diary to confide in....It’s like having a friend I can carry around in my pocket....”_

Riddle laughed, a high, cold laugh that didn’t suit him. It made the hairs stand up on the back of Harry’s neck.

“If I say it myself, Harry, I’ve always been able to charm the people I needed. So Ginny poured out her soul to me and her soul happened to be exactly what I wanted....I grew stronger and stronger on a diet of her deepest fears, her darkest secrets. I grew powerful, far more powerful than little Miss Weasley. Powerful enough to start feeding Miss Weasley a few of _my_ secrets, to start pouring a little of _my_ soul back into _her_...”

“You possessed her,” Draco said. “Because you’re just a memory. You can’t actually _do_ anything. So you used _her_ to open the Chamber of Secrets.”

Riddle raised an eyebrow. He spared Draco a single glance before his eyes slid back to Harry again. “Correct,” he said.

“Wait— _Ginny_ opened the Chamber of Secrets?” Harry repeated, gaping.

“Yes,” said Riddle calmly. “Of course, she didn’t _know_ what she was doing at first. It was very amusing. I wish you could have seen her new diary entries...far more interesting, they became.... _Dear Tom_ ,” he recited, watching Harry’s disbelieving face, “ _I think I’m losing my memory. There are rooster feathers all over my robes and I don’t know how they got there. Dear Tom, I can’t remember what I did on the night of Halloween, but a cat was attacked and I’ve got paint all down my front. Dear Tom, Percy keeps telling me I’m pale and I’m not myself. I think he suspects me...There was another attack today and I don’t know where I was. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are asking me questions I don’t know how to answer, Tom. Dear Tom, Percy’s girlfriend died today, and I can’t remember what I was doing. Tom, what am I going to do? I think I’m going mad....I think I’m the one attacking everyone, Tom!_ ”

Harry’s mouth was open, and he was staring at Riddle so hard his eyes watered. He blinked several times, and shook his head. “That’s crazy,” he said. “All those times we thought Ginny had _seen_ the Heir opening the Chamber and attacking people...and it was really _her?_ ”

“I don’t know if I feel really smart for figuring out Weasley had something to do with it,” Draco muttered, “or dumb for not thinking it could actually _be_ her. Although it sort of wasn’t,” he pointed out quickly. “It was really Riddle—he was just _using_ Weasley...”

“Yeah,” said Harry slowly, studying the tall boy. Riddle was leaning back against the stone legs of Salazar Slytherin now, staring at Harry and his friends across the motionless body of Ginny Weasley. Actually, he was really only staring at Harry; he barely seemed to notice Draco and Goyle.

“I knew you suspected Ginny,” Riddle said. “I’d hoped she could lure you down here herself, but she was annoyingly stubborn, and then people kept getting in the way. But I thought if they threatened to close the school you might try harder. That’s why I stopped, you know, when I opened the Chamber the first time,” Riddle added conversationally. He smirked. “Well, I couldn’t go back to my Muggle orphanage, could I? So I found a bumbling idiot to frame,” Riddle said proudly, “and—”

“You framed Hagrid?” Harry interrupted.

“Hagrid? Yes, that was his name. You know him? Well, it was my word against his. You can imagine how it looked to old Headmaster Dippet. On the one hand, Tom Riddle, poor but brilliant, parentless but so _brave_ , school prefect, model student...on the other hand, big, blundering Hagrid, in trouble every other week, trying to raise werewolf cubs under his bed, sneaking off to the Forbidden Forest to wrestle trolls...but I admit, even _I_ was surprised how well the plan worked. I thought _someone_ must realize that Hagrid couldn’t possibly be the Heir of Slytherin. It had taken _me_ five whole years to find out everything I could about the Chamber of Secrets and discover the secret entrance...as though Hagrid had the brains, or the power!”

“Didn’t _anyone_ know better?” Draco asked, wrinkling his nose.

“Well, the Transfiguration teacher, Dumbledore, seemed to think he was innocent,” Riddle admitted, not taking his eyes off Harry. “He persuaded Dippet to keep Hagrid and train him as gamekeeper. Yes, I think Dumbledore might have guessed....Dumbledore never seemed to like me as much as the other teachers did...”

“He’s gone now,” Draco said proudly. “My father got him suspended.”

Riddle’s eyes barely flickered. “Dumbledore certainly kept an annoyingly close watch on me after Hagrid was expelled,” he said. “I knew it wouldn’t be safe to open the Chamber again while I was still at school. But I wasn’t going to waste those long years I’d spent searching for it. I decided to leave behind a diary, preserving my sixteen-year-old self in its pages, so that one day, with luck, I would be able to lead another in my footsteps, and finish Salazar Slytherin’s noble work.”

“Good job,” Harry said shortly. “You haven’t chased away ‘unworthy’ students at all,” he grumbled, “you’ve gotten us _all_ sent home, and Hogwarts is going to be closed—maybe forever!”

“Yes,” Riddle said, “my plans did change.”

Harry blinked. “Wait—you _want_ them to close the school?”

“Oh no,” said Riddle, “I love Hogwarts. It’s my home.” He smiled. “But it’s your home too, isn’t it Harry Potter?”

Harry swallowed. “What’s that got to do with anything?” he asked.

“Everything,” said Riddle. “My new plan, you see, was all about meeting _you_.”

Harry stared at him.

“Honestly, I thought killing that girl would do it; that’s why they planned to close the school, back in my day, one of the Mudbloods died—”

“Moaning Myrtle,” Harry said.

“But when that didn’t work,” Riddle continued, ignoring the name of his victim, “I decided to take Ginny, in hopes that you would be desperate enough to come after her. I knew you would have to go back to living with Muggles, after all, if Hogwarts was to be closed...and when that fate presented itself to _me_ , I’d done whatever _I_ had to do...

“And there you were,” Riddle said, his eyes tight on Harry, “an orphan who grew up with Muggles, sorted into Slytherin, a great history you knew nothing about...oh, Ginny Weasley told me all about you, Harry Potter. Famous Harry Potter. The infant who escaped Lord Voldemort. The Boy Who Lived.” Riddle’s lips curled into a smile. “I was an orphan too, you see,” he said. “I knew what it was like, I knew what _you_ must be like—and how better to force you to finally confront me, than by threatening to take away the only home you’ve ever loved?”

Harry’s fists were clenched, the nails digging deep into his palms.

“If you love Hogwarts,” he said, “why do you want it closed?”

“I don’t want the school closed,” Riddle said, “I don’t care about that. I just wanted to meet _you_. To find out what you were like, the boy who defeated the Dark Lord...” Riddle’s eyes raked hungrily across Harry’s scar. “I must say,” he smirked, “I’ve yet to be impressed.”

“So?” Draco interrupted him shortly, “who are you, that we’ve got to impress? You’re the Heir of Slytherin you say—but you had to use a bloodtraitor to open the Chamber.” He crossed his arms, smirking. “That doesn’t sound like something Slytherin’s _proper_ heir would resort to. If you ask me, you’re just a lot of talk.”

“Oh, I am most definitely the Heir of Slytherin,” Riddle said. He nodded without looking away from Harry.

“Then how come you grew up in a Muggle orphanage?” Draco sneered. “What do you have against Mudbloods, if you’re one yourself?”

For the first time Riddle seemed to really look at Draco. His face twisted with anger. “My mother was a witch!” he snapped. “Merope Gaunt, heir to the bloodline of the noble Salazar Slytherin!”

Draco stepped backwards. “The Gaunts?” he murmured to himself, “but they...”

Riddle was still talking: “I discovered my history, and I proved myself more than worthy of Slytherin’s ancestry—more than any of my so-called pure-blood forebears. What did they ever do?” he snarled. “Sit around in their filthy hovel, whining about the glory days, letting wicked Muggles turn their daughter’s heads—I have raised the line of Salazar Slytherin to heights even he never dreamed of!”

Riddle looked more than slightly mad. There was an odd red gleam in his eyes. His hands were twisted like claws around the wand he held, and his edges rippled, like water.

“You mean like closing the school he helped found?” Harry said. “Yeah, I’ll bet Slytherin would be really impressed.”

“My ambitions expanded beyond this school,” Riddle said mildly, the strange mania fading. “The Chamber of Secrets is a child’s toy compared to what I would go on to do when I left Hogwarts.”

“Well you probably should have just stuck with the Chamber,” Draco sneered, “because you didn’t do anything all that great afterward. I know _I’ve_ never heard of anyone called Tom Riddle...”

Riddle laughed then, the high cold sound echoing between the tall pillars of the Chamber.

“Of course you’ve never heard of Tom Riddle, boy,” he said. “You think I was going to use my filthy Muggle father’s name forever?”

He raised his wand and began to trace it through the air, writing three shimmering words:

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE

Then he waved the wand once, and the letters of his name rearranged themselves.

I AM LORD VOLDEMORT

“You see?” he whispered. Harry heard Draco gasp and then, a few seconds later because he was a slow reader, Goyle yelped. “Impossible!” Draco whispered. Harry stared, feeling cold.

Riddle smiled at them. “I was already using the name at school,” he explained, twirling the wand between his fingers. “To my most intimate friends only, of course. Riddle—the name of that foul, common Muggle, who abandoned me before I was even born, just because he found out his wife was a witch—that was hardly suitable. No, I needed a name that was worthy of me, of what I would become. So I fashioned myself a new name, a name I knew wizards everywhere would one day fear to speak, when I had become the greatest sorcerer in the world!”

Harry’s brain seemed to have jammed. He stared numbly at Riddle, at the orphaned boy who had grown up to murder Harry’s own parents, and so many others.... “Hey,” he suddenly realized, “that’s my wand!”

Riddle twirled it idly between his fingers. “Yes,” he said, “and the delight of that irony, Harry Potter, is that I am going to use your own wand to kill you.”

Harry fell silent. He could feel Draco and Goyle step away from him.

“K-kill him?” Draco stammered. “But...why? Er...my lord?” he added nervously.

Riddle smiled. “Because Harry Potter defeated me. That cannot be allowed to stand. No one defeats Lord Voldemort, least of all some little boy. So now, I will set things right for him—for myself. Lord Voldemort is my past, present, and future—and now he will be yours, too. Not that your future will be a particularly long one, Harry Potter.”

“You’re just a memory,” Harry bluffed. “You can’t hurt me, or you’d have done it already.”

“I was just a memory,” Riddle agreed, “I am—but not for long. Ginny Weasley put too much into the diary, into me. Too much of herself. Enough to let me leave its pages at last....and soon, she’ll fade and die, and I will live again, _truly_ live again—and you will all of you bow to me. Except for you, Harry Potter,” Riddle amended, smiling pleasantly. “You’ll be dead. But first tell me, how did you survive? How is it that I, in whose veins runs the noble blood of Salazar Slytherin, grow up to be defeated by a mere infant? Tell me everything. The longer you talk,” he added, “the longer you stay alive.”

“I don’t know,” said Harry shortly.

“Come, come, you must have some idea,” Riddle cajoled. “I’ve been wondering about you for so long, Harry Potter. We are so alike, you see. Both half-bloods, orphans, raised by Muggles. Probably the only two Parselmouths to come to Hogwarts since the great Slytherin himself, and both sorted into his own house. Tell me, did you ever find it hard, when you first came here, to not give away the fact that the others were talking about things you didn’t understand?”

Harry said nothing, but he squirmed uncomfortably. Riddle grinned, noticing.

“I thought so,” he whispered. “I can see so much of myself in you...and not just in your scar. We even _look_ something alike...tell me, Harry Potter, tell me how alike we really are...”

“Well, everyone thought he was the Heir,” Draco spoke up quickly, when Harry stood silent. “And lots of people wondered if maybe the reason he defeated you was because he was a dark lord himself.”

Riddle raised an eyebrow. “And is that true?” he asked. “Are you a dark lord, Harry Potter?” He laughed. “You don’t look like much of one right now, do you? Wandless and trapped...it really wasn’t very smart of you to come here, Harry Potter...”

“Well he didn’t stand much of a chance, did he?” Draco said. “I mean, once _you’ve_ put a plan in motion....You wanted Harry down here, and don’t your plans _always_ succeed?” Draco was speaking in the same syrupy voice he had used to flatter Myrtle, but now it sounded desperate and hollow.

“Almost always,” Harry muttered, glaring at Voldemort.

“And you came with him,” Riddle said, glancing at Draco and Goyle. “Are you Potter’s first recruits to his army?” He grinned.

Draco’s face flushed; Goyle just looked confused. “No,” Draco said shortly. “But—but my father...” He hesitated, biting his lip. Harry willed Draco to keep talking. The longer Draco distracted Riddle, the more time it gave them to figure out an escape. He wondered if Crabbe had found Snape yet, and if he had been able to explain things well enough to be believed. He wondered where the monster was...

“My father was one of yours,” Draco said proudly. “He was one of your most trusted supporters, one of your greatest Death Eaters.”

Harry turned to stare at Draco. Was his friend insane, making up stories like that? Surely Riddle knew who his own supporters were...

But Riddle was studying Draco curiously. “You must be the Draco Malfoy little Miss Weasley complained about.”

Draco nodded quickly. “Yes, sir,” he said. “And my father, Lucius Malfoy—he was one of your most loyal, most valued, most—”

“And now?” Riddle asked.

“N-now?” Draco stuttered, the smooth flow of lies interrupted.

“And now who does he serve?” Riddle asked. “Dumbledore? The Ministry?”

“My father got Dumbledore kicked out of Hogwarts,” Draco snapped, “and the Ministry—well, Cornelius Fudge does what _my_ father _tells_ him to. Father doesn’t _serve_ anybody.”

“Except for me,” Riddle said.

“Er—yes. Except for you. Sir.”

Riddle chuckled, a low and unpleasant sound. “And what of you?” he said, turning to Goyle.

Goyle’s eyes went wide. “Me?” he said.

“Yes, you. What of you, boy?”

“That’s Goyle,” Draco offered, “Gregory Goyle, and his dad, he was one of yours, too.”

“Really,” said Riddle drily. Harry snorted. He didn’t believe it, either.

But Goyle nodded along, quicker on the uptake than usual; most of the time when Draco wanted Goyle or Crabbe to agree to some story he had just made up, he had to kick them in the ankles before they got the hint. This time Goyle figured it out right away. Even Harry was almost convinced. “Yeah, my dad’s a Death Eater,” Goyle said. “He almost went to Azkaban and stuff.”

“And...and they’d serve you still,” Draco said. “You know, when you come back—they’re still loyal. And so are we, or we could be—all of us. Even Harry.”

Harry turned to stare at his friend. “I would never—”

“Shut-up!” Draco hissed.

“Voldemort killed my parents—”

Draco and Goyle both flinched, but Draco hurried to interrupt Harry before he could say too much. “Well _he_ didn’t,” Draco argued, pointing at Riddle. “Someone he _grew up to be_ did, not him. So there’s no reason you couldn’t be on his side. It’s not like he can kill your parents _again_ , is it? And besides, if you served the Dark Lord, he’d reward you, not punish you.”

Harry scowled, but forced himself to nod. “Fine,” he said between gritted teeth, “I guess that makes sense.”

“Does it?” said Riddle mildly. “I’m not sure I’m convinced. I think the most sensible course of action would be to kill all three of you here and now. You’re Harry Potter’s friends,” he said to Draco and Goyle, “how could I trust you?”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Draco asked, looking panicky. “And...and what would you do next, anyway? After you k-killed us, I mean. Just waltz out of here, and find all the teachers and by this point probably half the Ministry’s Aurors waiting for you up there?” Draco shook his head. “You’re the Dark Lord, sure, but you’re still only sixteen right now. Could you really defeat _all_ of them?”

Riddle studied Draco. “And how would three twelve-year-old servants help me with that?” he asked. He seemed more amused than anything, as if he was enjoying watching Draco babble. Harry started looking around the Chamber, trying to see if there was another door besides the one they had come in through. He didn’t know when Riddle would finish toying with Draco, but he wanted to have a plan by then.

“We...we could throw them off-track,” Draco suggested. “No one knows you’re here, except for us, so you could lay low until you can gather some support—your old supporters, I mean. I’ll write to my father, he’ll be able to contact all of them for you.”

“All the ones who aren’t in Azkaban,” Goyle added. He swallowed hard when Draco glared at him.

“That’s right,” Draco said, “the ones who aren’t in prison. Which is quite a few. Enough to give you a power base, anyway,” he insisted. “But they all think you’re dead now, you know,” he added, his voice mournful. “My father, and everyone else. So no one would be coming to help you, if you did start a fight with the teachers and the aurors and everybody. You’d be on your own.”

“I do quite well on my own,” Riddle said. He twirled Harry’s wand and smirked.

“Right,” said Draco quickly, “of course you do. But wouldn’t it be easier, you know, if you had help? You...in your future, I mean...you always found your Death Eaters really reliable and, and helpful, and...”

“That is true,” Riddle said. “I find loyal allies to be of great use. Prove yourselves to me, then,” he ordered. “Kill Harry Potter.”

“W-what?”

“You heard me,” Riddle said, grinning. “Kill Harry Potter. He doesn’t even have a wand. It should be easy.”

Harry stared at his friends. They were looking back at him in horror, or Draco was at least; Goyle was staring at Draco, and his thick face was scrunched up in confusion.

“I...I can’t kill him,” Draco whispered. “He’s my friend.”

“Besides,” Harry said quickly, “you couldn’t even kill me, and you’re a great sorcerer, or you will be anyway. They’d never be able to do it, not if _you_ couldn’t.” The sycophantic tone in Harry’s own voice made him want to vomit, but he forced himself to keep talking: “And maybe I am going to be a dark lord someday, and I can be your apprentice or something...I’m sure I could learn a lot from you...”

Riddle laughed. “I’m sure you could, Harry, but there’s only one thing I’m interested in teaching you, and that is how to die. And if you will not obey me,” he said to Draco and Goyle, “then you can learn it, too.”

“You...you can’t want to kill me,” Draco whimpered. “I’m—my father’s Lucius Malfoy. He’s...he’s one of your most...most loyal...”

“Most loyal and obedient servants?” Riddle suggested, smirking. “Because that is the only kind I have use for, and if you will not obey me, then I have no use for you—or your father. And what about you, Gregory Goyle?” Riddle asked, turning to the larger boy. “Will you kill Harry Potter for me?”

Goyle looked around between the three of them. “Kill Potter?” he said. “But Potter’s our friend...” He looked to Draco for an explanation. “What do I do?” he whispered loudly.

“Don’t do anything,” Draco replied quietly, not taking his eyes off of Tom Riddle.

Goyle nodded. “Okay,” he said.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He never would have admitted it, but when Riddle told Goyle to kill him, a jolt of fear had raced up Harry’s spine. Goyle was so used to following orders that Harry had been half-afraid, for a minute, that he would just do as he was told, no matter what it was.

“You disobey me?” Riddle asked, studying Goyle. He advanced on the burly boy, looming over him, his eyes going red. Harry and Draco edged away. Goyle didn’t move, but stared up at Riddle, his broad face guileless and unafraid.

Goyle shrugged. “My dad told me to listen to Draco,” he said. “He told me, if you listen to a Malfoy, you won’t go wrong.” And poor, thick Goyle, who could never keep more than one idea in his head at a time, knew that he was above all supposed to listen to Draco Malfoy. He couldn’t listen to Tom Riddle, too.

Draco sagged limply; he, too, must have been worried. “Listen,” Draco said quickly, before Riddle could speak again, “we didn’t know it was you down here, or we never would have come. We never would have dared try and interfere. We won’t tell anyone, we promise.” Harry and Goyle nodded along, Goyle relaxing now that Draco was taking charge again. “If you’ll just be patient, my lord,” Draco continued, “we’ll take care of everything. We’ll rally your supporters, and get everything ready, it won’t take long...”

Harry caught Draco’s eye and nodded toward the motionless form of Ginny Weasley. Draco shook his head, but Harry nodded again, insistently. Draco swallowed.

“W-we have to take the girl with us, though,” he said bravely. “There are people who know we were coming down here to find her—professors, I mean, not just students—so, um, so we have to leave with her, or they’ll be too suspicious...but we’ll, um...”

“We’ll bring you someone else,” Harry suggested. “Someone who won’t be missed.”

“Right!” said Draco. “You can use them to come back, and...and I’ll tell father what’s going on, he’ll know what to do...”

Riddle was watching them curiously, as if they were performing a show for his entertainment. “Why should I trust you?” he asked pleasantly.

“Because...because...”

“Because you know me,” Harry said. He met Riddle squarely in the eyes. “I’m like you,” he said. “You can trust me, because you trust yourself.”

“Ah, Harry Potter,” Riddle said, smiling, “but that is a problem. I do know me, you see...so I know that I can never trust you.”

Riddle raised his wand—raised Harry’s wand—and pointed it at Harry. Harry dove aside, scrambling behind one of the pillars. Riddle’s cold laugh chased him. He didn’t even bother with a spell, letting Harry’s fear make him run.

Harry ran into the darkness around the edges of the room. He could hear Draco and Goyle shouting, but dimly; he wasn’t paying attention to them right now. He wasn’t even worried about the Basilisk that might be lurking in the shadows. Voldemort was all that mattered.

Harry peered out around the edge of a pillar. He saw Draco and Goyle standing together next to a pillar on the opposite side of the room, their wands out and their faces panicked. Ginny was lying right where she had been, completely motionless. There was no sign of Tom Riddle.

Harry ran toward the statue, one thought in his head: Get to Ginny. She must have her wand with her, tucked in one of the pockets of her robe; if Harry could find that, he could fight back.

Harry dropped to his knees next to the Gryffindor girl. He grabbed at her robes, but before he could find the pockets, Tom Riddle suddenly loomed up out of the shadows next to Harry. Riddle’s eyes gleamed red and he opened his mouth to speak, his hand raising Harry’s wand.

Harry, without thinking, reached out to take it back. His hands closed over Riddle’s. There was an odd cold, clammy feel to Riddle’s skin, as if it wasn’t made entirely of flesh. A needle-sharp pain seared across Harry’s scar; Riddle yelled in surprise. Harry yanked at his wand, trying to wrest it away from the taller, not-quite-corporeal boy. He put up a hand to push Riddle away, shoving him backwards. Riddle gave a scream of pain. Harry’s head felt like it was about to split in two.

Suddenly Riddle’s hand slipped off Harry’s wand, and he went stumbling backwards. When Harry looked up, Riddle was bent half-double, cradling his right hand against his chest and holding his face with his left. There were blisters on his skin where Harry had touched him.

Riddle glared at Harry, his blistered face ugly and furious. He struggled upright and turned to look up into the stone face of Slytherin, high above him in the half-darkness. He voice was an angry hiss—but Harry understood what he was saying...

“ _Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four. Send me your serpent, that I may kill these blood-traitors!’_

Slytherin’s gigantic stone face was moving. Horrorstruck, Harry saw the mouth opening, wider and wider, to make a huge black hole.

And something was stirring inside the statue’s mouth. Something was slithering up from its depths.

“Stop!” Harry cried. He swallowed, and tried again: “ _Stop!_ ” he shouted in Parseltongue. Riddle laughed at him and rubbed his blistered wrist. “The Basilisk only obeys me, now!” he told Harry triumphantly.

“Call it off then!” Harry yelled, pointing his wand at Riddle. “Call it off, or—or I’ll kill you!”

Riddle’s high, cold laugh echoed off the Chamber walls. “You’re bluffing,” he sneered, “you’re twelve, you couldn’t possibly know how to kill me—”

“Probably not,” Draco agreed disparagingly, and Harry’s heart sank, “but I could.”

Draco was standing behind Riddle now, his own wand raised and pointed at the sixteen-year-old Dark Lord. “My father was one of your Death Eaters, after all,” Draco continued, the calm tone of his voice bellied by his shaking hand. “He’s taught me a lot.”

Riddle faced the blond boy with a disbelieving smirk on his face. Draco swallowed hard, and tilted his chin defiantly. “I know spells you haven’t even invented yet,” Draco sneered, and Riddle’s grin slipped. Harry held his breath. He wasn’t even sure himself anymore if Draco was bluffing.

There was a horrible slithering sound. The Basilisk was uncoiling itself, rising toward the mouth of the statue. Goyle yelped and covered his eyes, cringing down behind Draco. “Call it off!” Draco ordered shrilly. “Harry’s a Parselmouth too, he’ll know if you don’t...”

There was a long moment where the only sounds in the Chamber were the snake’s skin scraping over stone, and Goyle whimpering. Then Riddle said, quietly, “ _wait_.” The noises stopped.

Harry started breathing again. Draco looked torn between laughing in glee and passing out. The three boys stared at Tom Riddle. His face was twisted in an ugly snarl, and he no longer looked remotely handsome.

“We’re going to leave now,” Harry said. “If you try and call the Basilisk, I’ll know. And you don’t have a wand.”

Riddle’s eyes flashed an angry red, but with two wands pointed at him and Goyle’s meaty hands clenched into fists, there was nothing he could do but seethe. 

Harry backed away. He looked at his friends, standing next to the motionless girl. Harry quickly looked back at Tom Riddle, making sure he hadn’t moved; all Riddle did was scowl.“What about Ginny?” Harry asked quietly. “We can’t leave her here...”

“Carry Weasley,” Draco ordered. Goyle looked affronted. “What are you here for?” Draco snapped. “Pick her up!”

Goyle frowned but did as he was told, grunting with effort as he hoisted the limp girl across his shoulders. Riddle twitched, but made no move to stop him.

“Take the diary too,” Harry said. He had the feeling that without the diary, there would be no saving Ginny Weasley, no matter where they carried her.

Draco recoiled. “Are you mad?” he yelped. “That thing’s sucking her soul! I’m not touching it.”

“Fine,” said Harry. He ran forward and picked the book up himself. Draco jumped back out of the way. The diary felt slimy and warm, and seemed to be throbbing faintly, as if with a heartbeat. Harry swallowed hard and tried to ignore it.

The three boys with their unconscious burden retreated slowly across the Chamber. Riddle stayed hunched in front of the statue of Slytherin, his eyes red and hungry. Harry kept glancing over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t going to trip over anything, but he didn’t dare turn his back on Riddle. Neither did Draco, although Goyle faced forward as he followed his friends; he seemed more concerned with his heavy burden than with the memory of Lord Voldemort bristling behind him.

They made it halfway across the Chamber floor before Riddle snapped. _“Kill them!”_ he shrieked in a mad hiss. Harry didn’t wait to watch the snake emerge. He turned and sprinted as fast as he could for the door, Draco right beside him. He could hear Goyle panting as he struggled to keep up despite the weight of Ginny Weasley bouncing on his shoulders.

Something huge hit the stone floor of the Chamber. Harry felt it shudder—he knew what was happening, even without turning around. He could sense it, could almost see the giant serpent uncoiling itself from Slytherin’s mouth.

“ _Diffindo!”_ Harry shouted, firing blindly behind him. He heard Draco shout as well, but couldn’t tell what spell he used. He did hear the spells collide and ricochet, and he heard the stone ceiling crack and the pillars groan, and he heard Tom Riddle’s scream of rage.

Harry ran faster than he ever had in his life. They had almost reached the door. It loomed in front of them, wide open and pitch black and too far away to reach. He heard stones crashing down all around him, and then he heard nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would be grateful for some assistance relating to the third book, if anyone is interested in helping out. There's a question of background details, and Death Eaters, and who knew what, and I cannot find a definitive answer in canon. If you'd like to help me sort out what best to do about the issue, I would very much appreciate any and all speculation, advice, or opinions.
> 
> You can find the question, and associated information, outlined in full here: [King's Cross Station Forums](http://kingscrossstation.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=maraudereratalk&action=display&thread=2654) or, if you would rather, here: [Harry Potter Forums](http://www.potterforums.com/viewtopic.php?f=23&t=52852) Your insights will be very much appreciated (and will help the updates for the third part of _Green-Eyed Snake_ progress that much faster!), thank you.


	18. Cracks in the Walls

A ray of very bright light broke through the blackness around Harry. He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, but the light refused to go away. Harry tried to raise an arm to block it out, but found himself pinned down by something very heavy. “Wha—”

“Patience, Potter,” snapped a familiar voice. “Keep still.”

Harry obeyed, and not just because every part of his body ached. There was something in that acerbic voice that demanded obedience, although Harry couldn’t remember why.

He heard the sound of shifting rocks, and more light came in to assault his eyelids. Harry forced himself to lie still as he felt the stones being raised carefully off of him. There was a lot of talking going on in hurried, hushed tones, which gave Harry the impression of people doing frantic work while trying not to frighten anyone.

Something fastened in Harry’s collar and yanked him up through a gap in the stones. His elbows and knees banged on the edges of the ragged hole, and he yelped. Hands grabbed him by the shoulders and guided him onto solid ground. He staggered to his feet and stood blinking in the light.

Harry looked around. He was standing in an unfamiliar dungeon corridor. Torches gutted along the walls. They looked damp, and there were old spiderwebs on the ceiling.

Professor Snape stood next to Harry. He was crouched above a cracked hole in the floor, around which were piled several large stones. Snape straightened up and cast a disparaging eye over Harry. He held out something long and thin and, when Harry just stared at it dully, Snape pressed the slim stick into his hand. Harry closed his fingers over the shaft automatically, and stared at the thing like he had never seen it before.

“This is the second time I have had to return this to you, Mr. Potter,” Snape drawled. “I suggest you learn to hold on to it. There may not be a third.”

Harry nodded, and blinked at the thing in his hand. He realized dimly that it was his wand, which seemed important, but Harry couldn’t remember why. He tucked it into his pocket and nodded automatically. “Thanks, Professor,” he mumbled.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Feeling all right, Potter?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Harry answered honestly.

Snape gave a snort and turned away. Harry looked at the other people in the hallway: There were five or six teachers, all still dressed despite it being well after midnight. Madame Pomfrey, the hospital matron, was tending to a very pale looking Gregory Goyle. Goyle kept whimpering and clutching his leg. Blood streaked his face, and he was covered with dust and muck. Professor McGonagall was gently helping Draco up out of the rubble; he looked every bit as filthy, bloody, and pale as Goyle.

Harry saw that there were several other holes in the floor of the corridor, all with their own pile of rocks. Harry appeared to be standing on one of the few remaining level areas. The damp walls had cracks running up through them, as if something catastrophic had happened to their foundations.

With a jolt, Harry suddenly remembered the last few hours.

He looked down at his hand, which was still clenched, white-knuckled, around a thin black book.

“Professor!” he yelped, skidding across the uneven floor to Snape’s side, “The diary, you have to do something! He’s in the diary! Tom Riddle!” Harry shouted, brandishing the book in Snape’s sallow face. “He’s in here!”

Snape blinked at Harry. “Clearly delirious,” he muttered to himself. “Calm down, Potter,” he said aloud. “Go over to Madame Pomfrey, she’ll take you up to hospital and sort you out.” Snape smiled thinly. “As best one can, at least,” he sneered to himself, turning back to the rubble.

“You don’t understand!” Harry said. “It’s Tom Riddle—Voldemort—he’s in the diary!”

Snape rocked backwards, and his face went cold. “That’s enough, Potter,” he snapped. Snape put a hand on Harry’s shoulder and forced him to march toward Madame Pomfrey, who was prodding Goyle in his pudgy side, and scolding him when he swore.

“You have to listen to me!” Harry cried. “Snape—Professor— _please!_ ”

Snape met Harry’s eyes and hesitated. Harry stared at his head of house beseechingly, silently pleading for Snape to believe him.

“Very well, Potter,” Snape said eventually. “Give me the book. I will see that it is dealt with.”

Harry sagged in relief, and felt his aches all over again. “Thank you,” he said. “Please hurry, I’m not sure how much longer Ginny’s going to last.”

Snape nodded, although he couldn’t possibly have understood what Harry was talking about, and he swept away studying the diary in his hand. Harry trudged over to the hospital matron. Pomfrey immediately started prodding him all over, and peering at his eyes. Somehow he hadn’t lost his glasses, although both lenses were cracked.

Goyle sat slumped against the wall, his leg stretched out in front of him. He was sweating through his coat of dirt. Pomfrey clucked over both of them, but Harry hardly listened to her. His thoughts were miles away, down in the Chamber of Secrets. Was Tom Riddle still down there, preparing to send his Basilisk after them? Had the cave-in crushed the snake? Could rocks hurt a memory?

Harry looked around. He didn’t see Ginny Weasley anywhere, but a group of teachers were clustered thickly around a deep crevasse in the floor. They all had their wands out, and were speaking very fast in whispers.

Draco limped over to join Harry and Goyle. Professor McGonagall braced a hand on his shoulder to help him sit down. Instead Draco’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the floor without a sound. Harry jerked to his knees but Madame Pomfrey got there first:

“Broken collar bone,” she announced briskly, feeling around the area that McGonagall had grabbed. The Transfiguration Professor’s face was white, and she looked horrified. “Not to worry,” Pomfrey told McGonagall, “that’s easily mended. And probably better for the boy if he’s not awake to feel it.”

McGonagall nodded, backing away. Madame Pomfrey drew her wand and pointed it at Draco. There was a hollow pop, and his bones visibly shifted. Goyle turned away, retching. Harry swallowed hard, and tried to find something else to look at. Everyone was bustling around, being useful, so Harry decided to go join them, despite the ringing in his head and the way everything wobbled when he walked.

Madame Pomfrey was too busy dealing with Goyle’s vomit to notice Harry leave. He limped over to the teachers crowded around the largest hole. Harry bounced up and down, trying to see over Sprout’s shoulder, then stopped because the motion made him feel sick. “Have you found Ginny? Is she okay?” he asked. “What’s going on? I can’t see.”

Sprout turned around and bustled Harry back over to his friends, out of the way. “She’ll be just fine,” she assured Harry. “Madame Pomfrey knows her stuff, there’s not much she can’t patch up. The only tricky part has been trying to dig the four of you out without bringing any more of the castle crashing down.” Sprout’s kindly smile went ignored.

“I want to see her,” Harry demanded. He had to know if Ginny Weasley was still alive, or if Tom Riddle had managed to steal her whole soul, and even now might be climbing up out of the collapsed Chamber of Secrets to kill them all.

“You just rest,” Sprout tried to soothe him, but Harry wasn’t listening. “I have to see her,” he insisted, “it’s important, I have to know—”

“Mr. Potter, try and calm down, there’s no need to get upset. Everything’s going to be just fine—”

“Don’t tell me not to get upset!” Harry yelled. “You don’t understand what’s going on!”

“Potter!” McGonagall turned around from her conversation with Flitwick and Snape to glare at him. “Behave,” she snapped. “Shouting isn’t going to help anyone.”

“On the contrary, Minerva,” a calm voice interjected, “I find that a good shout can, from time to time, be very soothing.”

Professor Dumbledore, beard gleaming in the torchlight and blue eyes twinkling brightly, came striding up the corridor. He clambered easily over a pile of rocks, hiking his robes up to reveal a pair of pointy-toed boots.

“Albus!” McGonagall cried weakly. She clutched at her chest and blinked rapidly. “You—you’re back.” Here tone was hopeful, questioning.

“I am indeed,” said Dumbledore. “I received several owls from— _most—_ of the school governors tonight, begging me to return. They had heard that the school was closing, and Arthur Weasley’s daughter had been killed—a gross exaggeration I hope, Minerva?” Dumbledore barely paused for McGonagall’s nod. “From the look of things, however,” he continued briskly, “I may have come a bit late to be of any use.”

Some strong emotion had passed across Snape’s face at the sight of the headmaster, but it was gone before Harry could identify it. “Ah, Dumbledore,” Snape said calmly, “excellent timing, actually. Potter has asked me to investigate this book, despite current pressing matters. Perhaps you would care to give it a look.” He spoke as if Dumbledore had just come down from taking tea in his office. “I admit,” Snape continued, “I do find the thing somewhat disquieting. I have not had the chance to give it any sort of inspection yet, but it is clearly an object of very—”

Snape was interrupted by Dumbledore’s sudden, “Ah!” His eyebrows raised high above the half-moon spectacles that balanced on his crooked nose. “Thank you, Severus!” he said, taking the diary. A great many thoughts chased one another very quickly through Dumbledore’s bright blue eyes, flickering like quicksilver. Harry knew that even if his head hadn’t still been ringing, he never would have been able to keep up.

“Excuse me,” Dumbledore said politely. He turned away and strode back up the corridor he had just walked down, the diary clenched tight in his hand.

McGonagall gaped openly. Even Snape looked taken aback.

Just then there came the sound of shifting rocks and a little squeak of triumph from Professor Flitwick. The teachers clustered around the hole in the floor again. This time Madame Pomfrey kept a hand on Harry’s arm, so he couldn’t join them.

After a few minutes, the crowd of teachers opened, and the small form of Ginny Weasley was brought forward. She was just as still, and limp, and cold as she had been down in the Chamber of Secrets. She was also still breathing. Madame Pomfrey fussed over her, the matron’s face drawn with worry. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” Pomfrey murmured.

Snape peered over her shoulder. “That’s Dark magic,” he announced flatly. He made an investigative little motion with his wand, and the Potion Master’s sallow face twisted with disgust. “There’s something leeching her life’s essence.” His eyes flicked briefly to Harry, then away again. “I suspect a connection with that book Potter had,” he told Pomfrey and McGonagall quietly.

“Whatever it is, let’s get them up to hospital so we can get a start on sorting all of this out,” McGonagall said. She turned to Harry. “Can you walk, Potter?” she asked.

Harry lurched to his feet. “Yes,” he said defiantly.

McGonagall sniffed and Snape raised an eyebrow in clear disbelief, but Harry was determined. He waited while they got the others ready: Pomfrey conjured up three stretchers, and Snape and McGonagall helped load the students onto them. Draco groaned, but Ginny Weasley made no noise at all. McGonagall led the way upstairs.

Flitwick stayed behind with a few of the other professors, and a beleaguered Mr. Filch, to work on setting the rubble-strewn corridor aright.

Harry trotted next to Snape, who kept a sharp eye on Ginny Weasley’s limp form. Occasionally his eyes would flash to Harry, as if to make sure that he was keeping up, but he didn’t say anything.

They were deep, deep under the school, deeper than Harry had known the dungeon hallways went. He saw why when, after a number of interminable staircases and winding corridors, Professor McGonagall lifted aside a heavy tapestry, revealing an arched doorway that opened into familiar ground at last: the hallway where the statue of Perdita the Confused stood plump guard over an old, unused closet that mostly housed spiderwebs and rotted broom handles.

Harry sighed, realizing how far they still had to climb. Snape raised a questioning eyebrow. Harry shook his head. He couldn’t complain, not when his friends were hurt worse than him. He gritted his teeth and kept walking.

He supposed that it only took a few minutes to climb to the hospital wing, but to Harry it seemed like the journey lasted for hours. His whole body felt like it had been pelted by rocks. He kept peeking over at Ginny Weasley. Harry wondered if he was imagining it, or if she really did look a little bit less corporeal each time he looked at her.

Eventually Harry stopped looking, finding it too unsettling to watch the Gryffindor girl’s life seep away, especially knowing who was receiving it.

Madame Pomfrey pushed open the large double doors and led the way into the hospital wing. Crabbe was already inside, the only patient who wasn’t Petrified. He was sitting on one of the neat white beds, looking sleepy. His foot was propped up on a pillow and he was drinking a large mug of something that steamed. He looked up at the others, and his mouth dropped open.

Pomfrey took charge with brisk efficiency. Harry found himself bustled off to the bed next to Crabbe, then practically forgotten as everyone fussed over Ginny Weasley.

“What happened?” Crabbe asked, eyes wide.

“Long story,” Harry said shortly. “What about you? How’d you get hurt?”

“Oh,” said Crabbe, “sprained my ankle on the steps. It was pretty dark,” he said by way of explanation. “I broke mine,” Goyle chimed in, as if it was a competition.

Harry nodded absently, his attention as fixed on Ginny as the teachers’. He only looked away when he heard Draco groan:

“Potter,” the pale boy mumbled from the next bed over, “if I ever let you talk me into something that stupid again, smother me.”

Harry grinned.

Pomfrey made Draco drink a great deal of Skelegrow, and something that smelled like rotten plums and gave off noxious purple smoke, and ignored his complaints about the treatment. “And make sure you rest for two or three days,” she ordered them all. “No Quidditch!”

The matron bustled off again before Draco could object, or point out that Quidditch had been canceled, and returned her attention to the unresponsive form of Ginny Weasley. Snape and McGonagall were arguing quietly, neither one of them seeming to know what to do for the girl. Pomfrey settled for fluffing her pillows and checking her pulse and _hmm_ ing thoughtfully to herself.

She came by once or twice to give Harry, Draco, and Goyle disgusting potions to drink, and once she shone very bright wandlight in Harry’s eyes, checking the pupils she said. Harry wiped his streaming eyes and put his cracked glasses back on his nose.

Suddenly Ginny Weasley sat up with a loud gasp. She looked around the room at everyone, and then burst into tears.

The teachers flocked around her, their long robes completely hiding the girl from view. For a few minutes, everyone talked at once. It was only when Madame Pomfrey barked for silence that the babble subsided. Ginny was given several comforting pats on the back, and something hot to drink, and McGonagall and Snape were both banished to the far end of the ward, until they could control themselves, to give the girl a chance to rest.

Harry slid off his bed. If Ginny was awake, that must mean that Tom Riddle had been defeated, and forced back into the diary—didn’t it? He wished he knew what was going on.

“I’m going to find Dumbledore,” Harry whispered to his friends. “He’s got the diary, he must have done something with it. I’ll find out, and—”

But Ginny Weasley wasn’t resting. Instead she clutched Pomfrey’s arm and, tears streaming down her face, shouted, “it’s me! I’m the one who opened the Chamber of Secrets! Please—I didn’t mean to—he made me—I couldn’t help it! Riddle m-made me, he t-took me over—and—where did he go? The last thing I remember is him coming out of the diary—”

“You no longer need to worry about Tom Riddle.”

With everyone staring at Ginny Weasley, no one had noticed the doors open again. Dumbledore strode up the ward between the beds. He looked tired but triumphant.

“Professor!” Harry sank back onto his bed. “Did you—is it—?”

“The diary has been destroyed,” Dumbledore said firmly. “Tom Riddle is not going to be troubling anyone again, at least not via the same source. So you, Miss Weasley, can stop crying. Besides, I think there are some people here who would very much like to see you, and I imagine there will be tears enough to go around.”

Dumbledore stepped aside and two more people hurried into the hospital wing: a short, plump woman and a taller, skinner, balding man. They both had bright red hair. The moment they saw Ginny, her parents cried out and ran to the little girl’s bed. Ginny found herself swept up in her mother’s ample arms, and she burst into tears again. Mr Weasley patted his daughter soothingly on the top of her head—the only bit he could reach through his wife’s embrace—and made comforting noises. Mrs. Weasley just sobbed.

Harry noticed Mr. Filch skulking awkwardly in the doorway. He didn’t seem to know what to do, now that the Weasleys had been delivered. He slunk away crabwise, looking as out-of-place as Harry felt.

“And now,” Dumbledore said gently, after Madame Pomfrey handed out handkerchiefs, “I think we should all like to hear how that very strange book came to be in your possession, Mr. Potter, and what exactly transpired that caused such damage to the castle.”

Everyone turned to stare at Harry and his friends. He and Draco exchanged a nervous look. “Well...” Harry said, and stopped. He didn’t know where to begin.

“We rescued Ginny Weasley,” Draco said. Harry nodded quickly. “That’s right,” he said. “We found out the monster was a Basilisk—I could, um, I could hear it moving in the walls, because I speak Parseltongue. Actually,” Harry said fairly, “it was Goyle who guessed what it was.”

McGonagall’s eyes went wide and Snape frowned. Goyle beamed.

Harry and Draco took turns telling the story. Crabbe and Goyle joined in once or twice, but mostly let their cleverer friends handle the talking. They were careful to stay as vague as they could, hoping to avoid getting in too much trouble. Harry figured that rescuing Ginny would count for a lot, but he saw no reason to tell anyone that he owned an Invisibility Cloak, or that he and Draco had been responsible for the ceiling caving in, or admit to breaking any more school rules than he absolutely had to. Consequently their story skipped over several potentially crucial details, but no one interrupted them with questions.

The Weasleys stared at Harry when he talked about how they had started to suspect Ginny Weasley, and they positively glared at Draco. Harry hurried to explain that they hadn’t gotten that part quite right, because Mr. Weasley looked like he was thinking about doing something drastic to shut Harry up if he accused his daughter of anything nasty.

“But, see, it wasn’t really Ginny,” Harry said quickly. “She was possessed by this diary she had, that had belonged to the first person who opened the Chamber of Secrets—”

“Tom Riddle,” Draco interrupted. “He was a student here fifty years ago.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, “and he claims he grew up to be Lord Voldemort.”

Draco flinched, and the Weasleys all gasped, and McGonagall flung her hands to her chest. Snape’s face was unreadable, but his eyes glinted as they fixed tightly on Harry’s face.

“Our Ginny possessed by You-Know-Who?” Mrs. Weasley cried. She clutched her daughter so tightly she nearly smothered her. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

“It’s true, mum,” Ginny whispered.

“I fear I can corroborate this part of the story, Molly. Very few people know that Lord Voldemort was once called Tom Riddle,” Dumbledore explained pleasantly. “I taught him myself, fifty years ago, at Hogwarts. He disappeared after leaving the school...traveled far and wide...sank so deeply into the Dark Arts, consorted with the very worst of our kind, underwent so many dangerous, magical transformations, that when he resurfaced as Lord Voldemort, he was barely recognizable. Hardly anyone connected Lord Voldemort with the clever, handsome boy who was once Head Boy here. But, I assure you, they are one and the same.

“Of course,” Dumbledore continued, “Riddle always was extraordinarily good at getting himself out of trouble. If it weren’t for Harry and his friends here, no doubt Ginny alone would have taken the blame for all the tragedies we have suffered this year, with no one realizing that she was just another victim.”

Harry grinned at his friends, relieved that it sounded like none of them would be getting in trouble, but Draco’s attention was fixed on Dumbledore. He was scowling.

“But, Ginny,” said Mrs. Weasley. “How does our Ginny have anything to do with—with— _him_?”

“His d-diary,” Ginny sobbed. “I’ve b-been writing in it, and he’s been w-writing back all year—”

“ _Ginny!_ ” said Mr. Weasley, flabbergasted. “Haven’t I taught you _anything?_ What have I always told you? Never trust anything that can think for itself _if you can’t see where it keeps its brain?_ Why didn’t you show the diary to me, or your mother? A suspicious object like that, it was _clearly_ full of Dark Magic—”

“I d-didn’t know,” sobbed Ginny. “I found it inside one of the books Mum got me. I th-thought someone had just left it in there and forgotten about it—”

“That’s the problem with buying things second-hand,” Draco sneered quietly to Harry. Harry would have used his elbow to shut his friend up, if they had been sitting closer to one another.

“Miss Weasley needs to rest,” Dumbledore said kindly. “This has been a terrible ordeal for her. There will be no punishment. Older and wiser wizards than she have been hoodwinked by Lord Voldemort.” He smiled at the teary-eyed girl. “Bed rest and perhaps a large, steaming mug of hot chocolate,” he suggested, and Madame Pomfrey bustled off. “I always find that cheers me up.”

“But—but somebody _died_ ,” Ginny cried.

“Yes.” The twinkle left Dumbledore’s eyes and his face sobered. “This has been, as I said, a tragedy—but not one of your making, my dear girl. Casualties have a way of following Lord Voldemort around, sometimes even unintentionally. He is a heartless, dangerous man, who cares nothing for anyone but himself. It is, perhaps, the unintended deaths that demonstrate the true depths of his evil the best: Voldemort is possessed of such a disregard for others, that the lives of strangers are as meaningless to him as the lives of those who hold him in highest esteem, and he cares nothing for any sacrifices save in how they can be made to benefit him. Those caught in the cross-fire of his schemes are, to Voldemort, not even worth the mentioning—not even when those caught considered themselves to be his allies. He is, I fear, a far worse monster than any Basilisk could ever be.”

Dumbledore’s bright blue gaze was still fixed on Ginny Weasley, but Harry had the strangest feeling that the headmaster’s comments had been meant for him, and perhaps his friends, more than for the sniffling red-haired girl.

“Well!” said Dumbledore, suddenly standing. “This has been a long day for everyone, and Miss Weasley needs her rest. If I could beg your indulgence a little longer, boys,” Dumbledore said, turning to face the Slytherins, “there are one or two questions I would like to clear-up before you trundle off to bed for some well-deserved sleep yourselves. You don’t mind, I hope?” the question was put politely enough, but Harry wouldn’t have dreamed of refusing—except—

“Er, Professor, I...I haven’t packed...”

“Ah.” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “For the journey home, I presume?”

“Well...yes,” Harry said, although he didn’t think of Privet Drive as “home.”

Dumbledore smiled. “I wouldn’t worry about that, Mr. Potter,” he said. “After all, there is no longer any reason to close the school, so why should you need to pack?”

“Told you so,” Draco muttered. Relief—warm, sweeping, glorious relief—swept over Harry. He grinned. “Brilliant,” he said, beaming.

“Now,” Dumbledore studied the four boys in front of him, “given Mr. Goyle’s injuries, and the fact that Mr. Crabbe—while heroic—was not involved in most of the more complicated parts of the narrative, I believe that you may both be excused any tedious questions tonight. Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy, if the two of you would come up to my office with me?”

Crabbe sat back, sulking with disappointment, but Goyle nodded happily. “Goodnight!” he said.

Harry and Draco followed Dumbledore to the doors, but were waylaid by Mrs. Weasley. She had finally disentangled herself from her daughter, and now flung herself around their necks, hugging them both tightly. Draco squawked in indignation, but the plump woman was not about to be flung off by one skinny boy’s struggles. Harry blinked, too stunned to move, as Mrs. Weasley sobbed into his shoulder.

“You saved her! You saved her! Oh, how can I ever thank you, boys?”

“Er—don’t mention it,” Harry said, his face burning with embarrassment. “Really. It was...”

“We can never repay you,” Mrs. Weasley sobbed. “You beautiful, wonderful boys!” She let go of Harry and Draco, and threw herself on first Crabbe and then Goyle, who grinned stupidly. Draco, his face a horrified study of dismay, yanked his grubby robes back into place, and tried to smooth his hair.

Mr. Weasley captured Harry’s hand, and then Draco’s, shaking them both very hard. “Yes, yes,” he said, “no words...possibly express...depths of gratitude...never forget...”

Harry nodded awkwardly while Mr. Weasley pumped his hand. Ginny, her own face red, peeked out from the curtain of her bright hair, staring at Harry with watery brown eyes. She looked torn between mortification at her parents’ behavior, and the desire to hug the boys herself. She settled for flashing them a quick smile, and then ducking her face down under the bedsheet she had drawn up to her knees.

When the Weasleys at last released them, Draco practically ran out the door. Harry hurried to catch up, and they both followed Dumbledore to his office. He led them up the stairs to the stone gargoyle, which sprang aside at Dumbledore’s approach. The two boys followed him up the dizzying spiral staircase, through the gleaming oak door, and back into the curious circular room.

Draco looked around with avid interest, clearly trying to pretend he wasn’t gaping. Even Harry, who had seen the headmaster’s office before, couldn’t help but still find it fascinating. From the perch next to Dumbledore’s desk, a large red bird piped a greeting. It was the most beautiful sound Harry had ever heard, and the most beautiful bird as well. It was the size of a swan, bright crimson, and had a glittering golden tail as long as a peacock’s. Its beak and talons gleamed gold as well, and its beady black eyes looked more intelligent than any animal’s had a right to look.

“Fawkes?” Harry gasped.

“In all his glory,” Dumbledore replied indulgently. He settled himself in the high chair behind his desk. He flicked his wand and drew up two more chairs, so that Harry and Draco could sit down. Harry pretended not to notice Draco trip because he was too busy staring around the office to watch where he was going.

“Sir,” Harry said, perching on the chair, “sir, I had a question—I mean—I was worried about—”

“Take a breath, Harry,” Dumbledore suggested kindly.

Harry did so, and forced himself to speak coherently: “What about the Basilisk, sir? Do you know, was it killed when—when the ceiling collapsed?”

“I do not,” Dumbledore said calmly. “I doubt that it was much hurt, certainly not mortally. Basilisks are resilient creatures,” he told them. “But there is no need for either of you to worry. With its master gone—”

“And how did you manage that, by the way?” Draco interrupted. “If you didn’t kill the Basilisk, then how...?”

“Ah,” said Dumbledore lightly, “I am afraid that that is a long tale, with many complicated elements that you would no doubt find quite tedious. It involves a lot of esoteric, advanced magic, about which I am sure neither of you has learned much yet. There is no reason to bore you both with the recounting of such dry academic pursuits.”

Draco frowned, and made to protest, but Dumbledore continued speaking immediately:

“As for the Basilisk,” he said firmly, ignoring Draco’s attempts to get a word in, “with its master gone, the snake will be no threat. It lurked for fifty years under the school without giving any sign of its presence, after all,” he said wryly, “and before that, for thousands of years after Slytherin departed. Whatever spells keep it alive,” Dumbledore explained, “they must also restrict its movements when it has no master to control and protect it, or it could not have remained hidden for so long.”

“No threat?” Harry exclaimed. “It’s at least twenty feet long! It’s already killed one person, and Petrified five others!”

“And we must be thankful for that,” Dumbledore said firmly. “A Basilisk’s stare is deadly. It was mere luck that saved those five victims from sharing Miss Clearwater’s unfortunate fate. This tragedy could have been very much worse. And it is for that reason,” the headmaster continued, “that I will wait to deal with the creature until the summer, when there are no students around to be put at risk.”

“You’re going to face it all by yourself?” Draco sounded dubious.

“Oh, no doubt I will be able to find a few volunteers to assist me,” Dumbledore said, as if he was planning a picnic. “Professor Snape, for one, would no doubt be keen to study a living Basilisk up-close, although I may have to refuse Hagrid the chance; he is too likely to be grieved by its inevitable and unavoidable death. A Basilisk, even without Slytherin’s Heir to control it, is simply too dangerous a beast to have around, no matter how talented one’s gamekeeper is at taming monsters.”

“So you’re just going to wait?” Harry asked, even more dubious.

“I am,” said the headmaster. “It will do no harm to have the creature rest for a few weeks. Besides,” he added with a smile, “by then, Professor Sprout’s Mandrakes will be fully mature, which will no doubt be a great reassurance to those of us who choose to face the beast.

“Now,” Dumbledore said quietly, steepling his fingers, “I think there may have been a few details you left out of your story, before.” He fixed Harry and Draco with his penetrating, light blue stare. “Oh, you do not need to confess to every bit of rule-breaking that cropped up along the way,” he continued gently, “but there are a few matters I would like to discuss in greater depth, chief among them: Tom Riddle. What exactly happened down in the Chamber of Secrets between Voldemort, and the three of you?”

Harry looked at Draco, who was wearing his polite, “I’m-about-to-lie-to-you,” expression. Harry frowned, and looked back at Dumbledore, who met his eyes lightly. Harry was reminded of a particular mirror, and the way his heart had sunk when he learned Dumbledore had been suspended, and the bright ray of hope that had buoyed up inside him when he saw the old headmaster come striding back up that hallway.

He decided to be honest.

“He wanted to meet me, sir,” Harry said. “That was his plan—well, not all along, at first he just wanted to re-open the Chamber, like he did the first time. But then he decided that it was more important to lure me down there so he could talk to me, because he’d found out who I was, and what happened when his older self tried to kill me. He wanted to know how alike we were, me and You-Know-Wh—Voldemort.”

Draco gaped at Harry. It was generally Draco’s policy to keep the truth in reserve, for the rare occasions when it was really necessary; he certainly never would have admitted all of that straight-off, without first trying to find out how the information would be received. But Harry didn’t want to lie to Dumbledore.

The headmaster nodded. “I see,” he said. “Thank you for telling me that, Harry,” he added. “That can’t have been easy.” There was a bright twinkle in his eyes, and Harry had the feeling that even Draco’s best story wouldn’t have fooled Dumbledore for long.

Harry shrugged. “It turns out we do have a lot in common,” he continued, forcing himself to speak calmly. “He was an orphan, like me, and he grew up with Muggles, and he hated it.” Harry avoided looking at Draco. “He felt out-of-place at Hogwarts at first, but then he started to think of it like home. Like me.” Harry swallowed. “And he could speak Parseltongue. And...so can I.” Harry’s nerve wavered. “But—but I’m not a dark lord,” he said hotly. “At least, I don’t think I am. I don’t _want_ to be,” he admitted. “But...but everyone says...I mean, they all wondered how I survived...and, when Tom Riddle touched me, he sort of burned. Maybe...maybe I _am_ a dark lord,” Harry whispered, feeling his stomach turn to ice at the realization. “He couldn’t even _touch_ me...he burned, when he tried.”

Dumbledore studied Harry closely. “I suppose,” he said, “that it is time to tell you something about your mother.”

Harry blinked. “My—my mother?” he asked. “What’s she got to do with anything?”

Dumbledore sighed. “Mr. Malfoy,” he said, “if you don’t mind, I should like to speak to Harry privately on a matter of personal interest. Why don’t you head back down to the infirmary and get started on that sleep you have been so unjustly denied tonight? I am sure that Harry can answer any further questions I have about tonight’s events and, if not, they can wait until morning to be addressed.”

Draco crossed his arms. “Anything you have to say to Harry, you can say in front of me,” he said belligerently.

Harry hesitated, then nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “Draco’s my best friend. I trust him. Besides,” he said, “I’d just tell him later, anyway.” Draco smirked.

Dumbledore did not look pleased, but he nodded once. “Very well,” he said curtly. He transferred his gaze to Harry, as if by looking only at him he could prevent Draco listening in.

“Your mother,” Dumbledore said gently, “was a very brave woman. Both of your parents were brave,” he added fairly, “but it is your mother’s actions that are chiefly relevant today. You see, Harry,” Dumbledore explained, “when Voldemort tried to kill you, it was your mother who prevented him. She died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn’t realize that love as powerful as your mother’s for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign...to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. It is in your very skin. The memory of Tom Riddle, full of hatred, greed, and ambition, leeching his life off of someone else’s soul, could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to touch a person marked by something so good. Your mother’s love lives on in you.”

Dumbledore now became very interested in explaining phoenixes to Draco. They both stared intently at Fawkes, who preened under the attention, which gave Harry time to dry his eyes on the grubby sleeve of his robe. When he had found his voice again, Harry said, “And...and Tom Riddle really is gone? And the diary?”

“It has been destroyed,” Dumbledore said firmly, “and with it, the boy that came out of it. There is, as I told Miss Weasley, no more need to worry about Voldemort, at least in relation to his schoolboy diary. He remains, of course, a dangerous threat—but not one, I think, that either of you need to fret about. Not right now.”

Harry nodded. “Right,” he said, “thank you. And I’m definitely not a dark lord?”

Dumbledore smiled. “You are not,” he said. “Which is not to say that you could not become one someday, if you wished, but you are not one now.” Harry smiled nervously. He wasn’t sure he liked a Dumbledore who told jokes, at least not about topics like that. “No one is _born_ a dark lord, Harry. That particular brand of evil is something that must be worked at quite hard over a great many years. It is not a thing that can happen to a person by accident, but only through their own choices. It is those that define us, not our talents or origins.”

“And...was Vold—You-Know—Tom Riddle, was he really Slytherin’s Heir?”

“He was indeed,” Dumbledore nodded. “The very last of that bloodline, unless I am much mistaken. And I am rarely mistaken.”

If Dumbledore heard Draco’s quiet snort of disbelief, he chose not to comment on it. Harry glanced at his friend. “So then, I’m not related to Slytherin,” he said doggedly. Draco sniffed, and pretended not to be paying attention.

“Not to my knowledge, no,” said Dumbledore, sounding vaguely amused. “Oh, you have some of his powers—”

“WHAT?” Both Harry and Draco jerked around in their seats to gape at Dumbledore.

Dumbledore frowned and seemed, for a moment, to regret speaking. His bright blue eyes flicked to Draco, then back to Harry, and he forced a smile. “When Voldemort tried to kill you,” the headmaster explained briefly, “he accidentally transferred some of his powers, and thus those of Slytherin, to you. Or so, at least, I surmise. That is why you can, for example, speak Parseltongue.”

“Wow,” said Harry.

“Cool,” said Draco. He blushed under Dumbledore’s sharp gaze. “I mean about the Parseltongue,” he muttered defiantly. Dumbledore’s expression did not lighten, and Draco squirmed in the chair. “Anyway, it came in handy, Harry being able to speak to snakes,” he retorted.

“It certainly did,” Dumbledore said, his voice neutral.

“Er...sir?” Harry asked. “If Herm— _when_ Hermione wakes up, do you think, maybe, you might be able to...I mean, if you wouldn’t mind...”

“Could I explain to Miss Granger that, while you can indeed speak Parseltongue, you are not a dark lord, or the Heir of Slytherin, and that you did not tell a giant conjured snake to eat her?” Dumbledore suggested. “Of course, Harry,” he said kindly. “I will make certain that she knows about your heroism.”

Harry felt his face grow hot. “Er, thanks,” he mumbled. “I just mean, she thought I was trying to...with the snake...you know...”

“I daresay there will be a number of people who will feel rather differently about you, once word of tonight’s activities gets out,” Dumbledore said lightly. “Miss Granger and her friends, not least of all.”

Harry nodded. “Thank you, sir,” he said.

“Now,” Dumbledore reached across the desk and drew an ink bottle and quill over to him, “I suggest you both go back down to the infirmary and get some sleep. I am going to write to Azkaban—we need our gamekeeper back, which I am sure will be a great relief to you, Harry.”

Harry grinned. “They’re letting Hagrid out?”

“They no longer have any grounds, no matter how tenuous, to hold him,” Dumbledore said. “I imagine that I will have to have a long conversation with Cornelius to explain everything, and so the sooner I get started on that, the sooner poor Hagrid will be able to come home.”

Harry jumped to his feet. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll go, then. And Professor—thanks again.”

Dumbledore smiled at Harry. “No Harry,” he said, “I believe that it is I who should be thanking you—both of you. Hogwarts owes you a debt.”

“Er, no problem,” Harry muttered, ducking his head. He sidled towards the door, eager to escape Dumbledore’s embarrassing praise. It was one thing not to get in trouble for breaking all those rules, and quite another to be told that the school owed one a debt of gratitude (although a few house points, Harry thought gamely, wouldn’t go amiss). Now didn’t seem the time to ask for those, though, so instead Harry hurried to the door. Draco followed a little slower; he was still sneaking peeks at the odds and ends and oddments that filled Dumbledore’s office.

Harry had just reached for the door handle when the door burst open so violently that it bounced back off the wall.

Lucius Malfoy stood there, fury in his face.

“Good evening, Lucius,” Dumbledore said pleasantly.

Mr. Malfoy almost knocked Harry over as he swept into the room. He didn’t seem to see Harry or, over near the wall, his own son, who was gaping in shock.

“So, Dumbledore!” Lucius Malfoy said “You’ve come back. The governors suspended you, but you still saw fit to return to Hogwarts—”

“Father!” Draco yelped.

“Draco?!” Lucius Malfoy’s eyes went wide at the sight of his bloodied, disheveled son. He crossed the large room in four long strides, so swiftly that his cloak was left trailing behind him like a flowing black afterimage. Harry scrambled out of Mr. Malfoy’s way. He clutched his son in a tight embrace, dropping to one knee in front of the boy, the better to enfold him in his long arms. “What happened?” Mr. Malfoy gasped.

“We—we fought the monster,” Draco said, in a very small voice that was muffled in his father’s shoulder. “In the Chamber of Secrets.”

Lucius Malfoy went very still. Harry found himself edging backwards to be closer to Dumbledore. He was more than a little afraid of what Mr. Malfoy might say when he found out that it had been Harry’s idea to enter the Chamber, and Harry who had talked Draco into coming along.

Mr. Malfoy sat back on his heels, gloved fingers dug in tight on his son’s arms, holding Draco out in front of him as if for inspection. “You. Did. What?” he said, the words hissed between tightly clenched teeth. Harry endeavored to turn invisible without his cloak.

Draco managed to go still paler, under his veneer of blood and dirt. “W-we,” he stammered.

“What were you thinking?” Mr. Malfoy snapped. “You could have died! I told you not to get involved, I told you—!”

Malfoy seemed to suddenly remember that there were other people in the room. He fell silent, white-faced, perhaps with fury, perhaps with fear, or maybe with some horrible combination of the two. He seemed to be strangling on unspoken words.

“But—but there was a girl, she almost died,” Draco stammered, squirming under his father’s gaze, clearly knowing that there was no possible explanation he could give that would suffice as reason for why he had risked his life. He tried anyway, adding, “they were going to close the school, we had to...”

Draco fell silent at the look on his father’s face. Lucius Malfoy made a visible effort to draw himself back under control. “We’ll discuss this when we’re at home,” he said tightly. Then he stood up and, drawing Draco with him, turned to face Harry and Dumbledore, who was watching the exchange between father and son with polite interest. Draco stood in front of his father, looking miserable and confused, with Mr. Malfoy’s hands very tight upon his shoulders. He winced at the pressure upon his recently-healed collarbone, but said nothing.

“So,” Mr. Malfoy continued, his voice trembling with the effort of control. “You have returned, and my son fought a monster. What exactly is going on here?”

“I was summoned back to Hogwarts by the other governors, when they learned that Arthur Weasley’s daughter had been taken by the monster. Your son, and Harry here, and some of their other friends, decided to rescue Miss Weasley themselves.”

“And you permitted this—this foolishness?” Malfoy snapped.

Dumbledore shook his head. “I fear that by the time I returned to the school, the boys had already succeeded. There were a few minor details left for me to clean up,” he said lightly, and Harry wondered again what Dumbledore had done with the diary. “But it is your son and his friends who did the deed. It was extraordinarily brave of them, going into the Chamber of their own free will in order to rescue another. It was a selfless, noble act—admittedly reckless—but one which any parent must be proud of nonetheless. You have raised a very remarkable son.”

“Of course he’s remarkable,” Mr. Malfoy snarled, then swallowed hard. He looked like he had just swallowed a lemon. “But you’re telling me that—that _children_ were permitted to—?”

“Ah,” Dumbledore interrupted lightly, “I cannot tell you any such thing. I was still suspended from Hogwarts at the time, and so cannot take any credit for their actions.” His smile looked, to Harry’s eyes, to be more than slightly smug.

Draco’s father looked, if possible, even angrier.

“I’m sorry, father,” Draco whimpered.

“I will be lodging a formal complaint,” Lucius Malfoy snapped. “The Ministry will not be pleased to hear that Hogwarts allows such—”

“The Ministry has no grounds to interfere with Hogwarts,” Dumbledore interrupted sharply. “As long as I am headmaster—and, as you can see, that is a situation that does not appear apt to change any time soon—then the school remains under my jurisdiction, and not Cornelius’s, or his lackeys.” The headmaster’s eyes flashed. “And, if you wish to draw the Ministry into this,” he continued darkly, “then I shall be forced to recommend a full investigation.”

“And what would that prove?” Mr. Malfoy sneered. “That under your tenure, Hogwarts has become an unsafe environment for children? Perhaps it might prove that it is time for a change of regime?”

“What might it prove indeed,” Dumbledore said lightly. He placed a hand on the thin black book that had been resting, unnoticed, on his desk. Harry wasn’t sure, but it looked smaller than it had before, and seemed somewhat charred around the edges.

Mr. Malfoy stared at the diary, and then at Dumbledore, and back again. His grey eyes narrowed.

“And what is that,” he said flatly.

“This?” Dumbledore held the book up. Ashes flaked onto his desk. “This is how the Chamber of Secrets was opened,” he said.

“Then you have discovered the culprit?” Malfoy asked. His white hands curled tightly around his son’s shoulders. Draco winced, but said nothing. “The attacks are stopped, the guilty party punished?”

“The attacks are indeed at an end,” Dumbledore said, “and the culprit discovered. As for punishment, I am afraid that may be somewhat delayed. My sources place Lord Voldemort far away from here, and currently safely hidden from the Ministry. It may be some time before he can be brought to account for any of his crimes—he and his accomplices,” Dumbledore added. “It is clear that he did not act alone in opening the Chamber of Secrets, but I have every confidence that justice will find those who deserve it. I take great comfort in that knowledge.” He smiled.

Lucius Malfoy paled. “I see,” he murmured.

“I am sure you do,” Dumbledore replied.

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure I like what you’re implying, headmaster,” he sneered.

Harry looked back and forth between the two adults, wondering what he was missing.

“What I am implying, Lucius,” Dumbledore said coldly, “is that one must be very careful, when one deals with monsters, to avoid being bitten—either by the monster, or those who come to slay it.”

“And you think you’re up to that challenge, do you?” Malfoy asked lightly. “You think this is a monster you can slay?” He smirked.

“A girl is dead, Lucius!” Dumbledore snapped, unamused. “You fail to understand. This is no game, or political trick; a child has been killed!” His face blazed with anger and his kindly blue eyes were suddenly fierce. The force of his rage was nearly tangible. Harry took a step backwards, closer to the Malfoys. Dumbledore looked at Harry. A flicker of something that might have been annoyance, or even sorrow, passed across his wrinkled face, and then was gone.

With a visible effort, the headmaster swallowed his rage, grudgingly. “I must hope,” Dumbledore said stiffly, “that no further incidents like this—no similar echoes of the past—should ever manifest within my school.” He met Mr. Malfoy’s eyes with a scowl. “I would be forced to find someone to hold responsible, no matter who their friends may be.”

Mr. Malfoy nodded stiffly. “I’m sure you would,” he said.

For a long moment the two wizards just stared at one another, Dumbledore’s eyes smoldering and Mr. Malfoy’s icy cold. Then Lucius Malfoy said, “Well, the boys have had what appears to be a very long and trying evening. I believe that it is well past time that they were allowed to wash up and go to bed. Unless you had anything else you wanted to discuss with Draco and Harry?” he asked politely.

Dumbledore’s expression soured. “No,” he said at last, “that seems to be all. You may head back down to the infirmary, boys—in fact, I will go with you.”

“No need to trouble yourself, Dumbledore,” Mr. Malfoy said. “I can see the boys there. It’s practically on my way out.”

“It’s no trouble,” Dumbledore said lightly. “I need to speak to Madame Pomfrey anyway. It was good of you to come, Lucius, especially at such a late hour. I am sure you must be eager to get home. Please,” he smiled coolly, “don’t let us detain you any further.”

Lucius Malfoy’s answering smile was even colder. “Your concern is most appreciated,” he said stiffly. “Thank you, Albus.” Malfoy turned around so that he was facing his son. Harry had a glimpse of Draco’s worried face before Mr. Malfoy’s long cloak hid him from view. He bent down and said something quietly to his son, squeezed Draco’s shoulder again, and nodded at Harry.

“Mr. Potter,” he said.

“Have a good night, sir,” Harry said. “I’m sorry we, er, worried you.”

Lucius Malfoy smiled thinly. “Just try and keep out of trouble, Potter,” he said. “Draco, you’ll write your mother first thing in the morning?”

“Yes, sir,” Draco said quickly. “I promise I won’t forget.”

“You’d better not,” said his father. “If your mother has to come all the way up here to make sure you’re all right...you are all right?” he asked.

“Nothing a bath won’t fix,” Draco assured his father. Lucius Malfoy nodded uncertainly, graced Harry with a thin smile and Dumbledore with an inscrutable look, then spun on his heel and strode back out the door.

Draco and Harry hesitated awkwardly. Dumbledore swept out from behind his desk. His smile looked forced. “Well, Mr. Malfoy was right about one thing: it has been a very long day. I think that it is well past time to put an end to it.”

The boys followed Dumbledore down to the hospital wing. Harry would have protested against spending the night there, were it not for the fact that his common room was so much further away. By the time they made it back down to the first floor, Harry was yawning with every other step. He pulled his broken glasses off and closed his eyes. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.


	19. Monsters and Mandrakes

In the morning, with their bruises freshly balmed and Harry’s glassed once again repaired, the four Slytherin boys and Ginny Weasley walked down to the Great Hall. There was an awkward moment at the door, when Ginny blushed and hesitated and finally mumbled, “thanks,” before running off to her own table. Harry was glad to be spared the need to reply. Rescuing someone from having her soul sucked out by the adolescent Dark Lord was a bit different than letting someone copy one’s notes for class, after all. Harry didn’t know quite what to say.

They followed Ginny into the Great Hall, where the rest of the student body was already assembled. Fortunately everyone was too busy exchanging rumors to pay attention to the late-comers, so Harry and his friends slipped in quietly. They found a free space at the Slytherin table between Pansy and Theodore, and looked around. Half of the students were wearing traveling cloaks, ready to board the train for home after breakfast. The rest were either better informed, or just more hopeful: many were still dressed in bathrobes and slippers.

The Great Hall was buzzing with curious speculation. The professors hadn’t said much while escorting their students to breakfast, and now misinformation ran rampant. Harry heard several Hufflepuffs insisting that Dumbledore had overthrown the whole Ministry and was planning to conscript the students of Hogwarts into his personal army. That was argued against by a group of Ravenclaws, who seemed to think that the Heir of Slytherin had been Cornelius Fudge all along, and he had just been apprehended by a secret plot between Dumbledore and his goblin allies.

Harry snorted. Some people would believe anything.

He scanned the ranks of teachers sitting at the high table. Every one was in attendance, even a few that Harry didn’t recognize. Hagrid, back from Azkaban at last and looking pale and cheerful and, as usual when he was indoors, too large to be allowed, sat grinning at the very end of the table. He caught Harry looking at him and waved. The only person missing was the bright, flamboyant figure of Gilderoy Lockhart.

“Where’s Lockhart?” Harry asked.

“Didn’t you hear?” Theodore Nott said, smirking. “He’s done a bunk.”

“What do you mean?” asked Draco.

“Ran off,” Theodore explained. “Last night, during all of the...ruckus,” he said delicately. “Packed his bags and fled. Didn’t even stop to resign properly, just left a note in his office and hightailed it. Snape was griping about him the whole way up here.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “No way,” he said.

“Did he give any excuse?” Draco asked.

“Not a good one, at least according to Snape,” said Theodore.

A fourth year Slytherin leaned across the table toward them, her long brown braid trailing between the empty dishes. “My aunt works for the _Daily Prophet_ ,” she said breathlessly. “Wait until she hears about the great Gilderoy Lockhart running away from a monster! I wouldn’t be surprised if the story makes the front page, the way his books have been selling. Ought to be quite the scandal,” she told them, grinning.

“That should be a blow to his reputation all right,” said Draco, smirking nastily.

“Well,” said Harry, in his best imitation of Lockhart’s pompous tones, “celebrity is as celebrity does.”

They all laughed.

Pansy Parkinson turned around to see what was so funny, and she frowned. “Where were you?” she asked them all, although she was staring at Draco. Her tone accusatory, Pansy continued, “I didn’t see you when Snape came to collect everyone; you weren’t off sneaking around again were you? If you’ve lost us points this close to the Cup, no one will be pleased...”

Draco started to brush Pansy off with a glib explanation, but a sudden commotion interrupted. There was a buzz of excitement near the large double doors that led to the entrance hall. Harry craned his neck to see what was happening. The noise spread in a ripple, keeping pace with the tall, long-bearded figure walking down the long aisle between the tables: Professor Dumbledore. When Dumbledore climbed onto the dais, a hush fell over the hall. The headmaster scanned the assembled students for a long moment before he started to speak.

“Greetings, Hogwarts,” Dumbledore said. “Let me start by saying, first of all, how glad I am to be back among you all. Before we can be derailed by sentiment, however, let me set your minds at ease: the crisis is over. The Chamber of Secrets has been closed—quite violently, as some of you no doubt noticed”—a few people at the Slytherin and Hufflepuff tables chuckled; the students from the towers looked confused —“and the Heir of Slytherin has been, at long last, defeated.” Dumbledore smiled, and his twinkling eyes came to rest on Harry and his friends. “We have some of our own to thank for this,” Dumbledore said, “and a few house points to award to those brave students who broke so very many rules in their efforts to save this school.” A few more people laughed, McGonagall not among them. Several Slytherins grumbled, and Harry squirmed in his seat. For once, Draco didn’t preen and bask at the prospect of attention, but ducked his head, looking uncomfortable.

“First of all,” said Dumbledore, “to Mr. Harry Potter, for sheer nerve and stubborn morality, I award one hundred points. To Mr. Draco Malfoy, for clever lies under pressure, another one hundred points. To Mr. Gregory Goyle, for stout shoulders and unwavering loyalty, one hundred points. And finally,” Dumbledore said to the ringing silence that filled the Great Hall, “to Mr. Vincent Crabbe, for his swift feet and determined presence of mind, twenty-five points. Well done, gentlemen. Hogwarts owes you a debt—as do I. Thank you.”

The silence was broken with a roar. Cheering erupted from all four tables, and amongst the teachers as well. Even those Slytherins who had most enthusiastically supported the actions of the Heir couldn’t help but be delighted by such a massive allotment of house points. Snape clapped as hard as anyone, and Harry thought he saw a smile flicker across the dour Potions Master’s face, but it could have been just a trick of the light.

Harry beamed, looking around happily. Draco seemed a lot m more cheerful, now that he had won a hundred points for their house. Crabbe and Goyle both looked dumbfounded, but pleased. Several people leaned across the table for congratulatory handshakes. “Brilliant work!” “That’s the House Cup pretty much in the bag, don’t you think?” “That’ll make it nine years in a row—pretty good streak!” they said. A few people at the other tables looked confused, and Harry heard a few whispers like, “But I thought he _was_ the Heir,” and, “I thought it was the other one—but either way...” and even, “Was it all a game to rig the Cup?” but for the most part, the cheering drowned everything else out.

Dumbledore finally waved them all to silence, his expression sober. “Yes, well done students, well done. You have the thanks not only of Hogwarts, but my own personal gratitude as well.” He nodded to Harry, who flushed with pride, and to his friends; Draco avoided Dumbledore’s eye while Crabbe and Goyle, as usual, just looked blank.

“However, as is the case with many victories, this one was not without its share of sorrow.” Dumbledore stared out at the students, his lined face tired. “Madame Pomfrey assures me that the Mandrakes are coming along well, and we can expect the monster’s Petrified victims to be returned to us within the month. But there is one who can not return.” Dumbledore’s gaze found the Ravenclaw table. The students there had gone very quiet, and clustered together. “I would like you to take a moment, please, and reflect upon Miss Penelope Clearwater. She was a clever and thoughtful girl, who was always happy to help others, be it through her Prefect duties or in informal study-sessions with struggling students. We will miss her, and must deeply regret that she was taken from us so early, her potential never to be fulfilled.

“But Penelope Clearwater was _taken_ from us—not lost. She was murdered, not by a monster, but by the man who controlled that monster and was thus, himself, a far greater monster than any mere creature can ever aspire to be. That is the true nature of evil: a thinking, scheming, speaking monster, who lies and manipulates and frightens. When you face evil in your lives—and I will not coddle you with lies of my own, and say that you will never have to endure such a thing—when you face evil, you must face it bravely, straight-on, because to allow yourself to be co-opted, even for an instant, is to say that you, too, would be willing to kill innocents like Penelope Clearwater, whose only crime was in failing to close her eyes when faced with something unfamiliar. We must never close our eyes, because that is where true evil lurks: in the shadows, behind the monsters.”

Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to be boring straight into Harry. “And there are monsters in this world, students,” the headmaster continued quietly. “They are not always scaled and fanged, either; often they hide behind charming smiles. It is only through vigilance, and awareness, and our own desire to do the right thing no matter the cost, that we can attempt to prevent further tragedies like this one.”

He stood then, holding his goblet high. Harry noticed that his own goblet had filled itself magically while Dumbledore was talking. “I would like you all to join me in raising a toast to Penelope Clearwater,” Dumbledore said, “a girl who saw far and looked farther; a girl who sought knowledge, and shared it, freely. Remember Penelope Clearwater, and remember monsters.”

 

The next few weeks passed slowly for Harry. It seemed wrong for the victims of the Heir of Slytherin to still lie Petrified after Riddle had been defeated. Harry thought that they should have awakened at once, like Ginny Weasley, but they had to wait for the Mandrakes to mature. Harry checked in at the hospital nearly every other day, and kept walking down by the greenhouses to see if Professor Sprout had started getting ready to cut and stew the noisy plants yet.

The good news was that Defense Against the Dark Arts was canceled, which gave all the students plenty of time to enjoy the warm sunshine. The Quidditch season was not restarted (“There’s not enough time to properly fit it all in,” Flint unhappily explained to the team), but with all the restrictions and rules lifted, the students were allowed to wander at will again, and Harry found himself in several pick-up matches on the pitch, because all the rest of the players were just as disappointed. It was strange flying with Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs against members of his own house, but oddly fun as well. Harry found that he much preferred the Weasley twins when they were on his team, instead of trying to crack his skull with their Bludgers.

All the Weasleys had been more polite to Harry since he rescued their little sister. The oldest one, Percy the Prefect, had even hugged him. Harry was pretty sure that counted as the most surreal moment of his life, at least so far. Pansy still giggled every time she saw Percy walk past.

Ernie Macmillan and the rest of the Hufflepuffs had given Harry a very stiff and formal apology, and Seamus Finnegan had admitted that “maybe Harry wasn’t so bad, after all,” although only after prompting from Neville Longbottom. Ron Weasley still wasn’t speaking to Harry, but at least he was now doing it with shame-faced glances and apologetic grunts, instead of glares and threats. Best of all, Hagrid was back at Hogwarts. Harry had gone down to see him right after the celebratory breakfast, and Hagrid had hugged both Harry and Draco so hard that their ribs creaked. Crabbe and Goyle, who had gone along to visit the gamekeeper for the first time, actually hid behind Fang to escape embraces of their own, but they had gotten so covered in slobber from the boarhound’s enthusiastic greeting that they probably would have been better off letting Hagrid hug them.

All in all, even with the Heir’s victims still Petrified in the hospital wing, Harry was enjoying May. He got some especially good news on the morning on the 30th, when he flipped through a forgotten copy of the Sunday morning _Daily Prophet_ , and saw that Gilderoy Lockhart was wanted by the Ministry.

Harry grinned as he read the exposé. It turned out that Lockhart’s reputation had not been justly earned, and his flight from the Chamber of Secrets had been all the excuse that the reporters at the _Daily Prophet_ hadneeded to go digging. It seemed Lockhart liked to take credit for other people’s deeds, and he was currently being sought by the Ministry of Magic for questioning in regards to several cases of illegal Obliviation.

It couldn’t have happened to a more annoying person, Harry thought. He folded the newspaper with grim satisfaction.

“I wonder who they’ll get to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts next year,” Harry mused.

“I bet I know someone who’d volunteer,” said Draco.

Harry looked up at the teacher’s table. Snape had spent the last month looking exceptionally smug. Whether that was because it had been his students who had stopped the Heir and saved the school, because Slytherin was definitely going to win the House Cup again, or because Gilderoy Lockhart had resigned in disgrace, was anyone’s guess. All Harry knew was that Snape had been acting uncharacteristically pleasant, and Harry wasn’t about to jinx that by questioning it too much.

“Yeah,” said Harry, “but then who would they find to teach Potions?”

Draco shrugged. “Bet Snape could do both,” he said.

Harry snorted. “Only if there’s some kind of magic spell that lets someone be in two places at once,” he pointed out with a grin. “There’s no way he could fit in all the classes otherwise.”

“Pity,” said Draco distractedly; he was sorting through yet another box of sweets from his mother, and Crabbe and Goyle were watching the growing piles of goodies with salivating greed. Harry swiped a sherbet lemon and popped it in his mouth when nobody was looking.

Then Hermione Granger walked into the Great Hall. The rest of the formerly-Petrified victims followed her, and all over the room people turned to shout greetings (Seamus Finnegan actually jumped over the Gryffindor table to smother his friend Dean Thomas in a hug), but Harry only had eyes for Hermione. She ran straight to Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom and the rest of the Gryffindors, who welcomed her back with lots of shouts and hugging.

Finally she pulled free of her friends, and looked over at the Slytherin table. Harry crossed his fingers. He watched Hermione take a deep breath, toss her bushy hair back out of her face, square her shoulders, and walk across the Great Hall. Ron Weasley, looking sullen, trailed behind her; Neville Longbottom, his round face nervous, followed behind _him_.

Harry stood up when Hermione reached the Slytherin table.

“Harry,” she said, “I just wanted to—well, to thank you. And apologize. I should never have suspected you to be the Heir of Slytherin, or thought you would ever do such—such _awful_ things, or believed any of the horrible rumors that people were spreading about you and, well, and I’m really, really sorry.” Hermione looked like she was on the brink of tears. “I’m your friend, and I should have known better. I should have trusted you. Can you ever forgive me?”

Harry grinned. “Of course,” he said.

Hermione’s miserable expression broke into a smile. “Really?” she asked.

“Sure,” said Harry. “If I thought someone tried to get a giant snake to eat _me_ , I probably wouldn’t think too highly of them, either. Er—I didn’t, you know,” he added quickly. “Tell the snake to eat you, I mean. I was actually telling it _not_ to—”

Hermione laughed nervously. “No, of course,” she said. “I should have realized, only I was—well—upset, and...anyway, I’m sorry.”

“No harm done,” Harry said magnanimously, and held out his hand.

Hermione shook it gratefully, beaming. “Thanks, Harry,” she said. “And, um, thanks for, you know, for going into the Chamber and fighting the Heir and all that...Ron was just filling me in on everything I missed while I was, er, you know—and it sounds, frankly, pretty heroic...”

“Oh, well.” Harry shrugged. “It’s not like I did it alone...”

“No, right.” Hermione took a deep breath, and turned to face Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle, who had been silently watching the three Gryffindors with baleful expressions on their faces (or at least, Draco’s expression had been baleful; Crabbe and Goyle, of course, were waiting for their cue to react). “Thank you,” Hermione said stiffly, “and I apologize for anything nasty that I said about you—all three of you. I obviously made an error in judgment, and I’m sorry about that.”

Draco’s eyebrows shot up.

Hermione elbowed Weasley in the side, and he quickly muttered, “yeah, thanks,” while staring at his feet. His face was red all the way to the tips of his ears. Longbottom just nodded, but very fervently.

“You all were very brave and, well—I appreciate it,” Hermione continued. “We all appreciate it, I mean.” Longbottom nodded again. Weasley just grunted.

“Don’t mention it, Granger,” Draco said. “Really.”

“Right.” She turned quickly back to Harry. “Well, anyway...um...I’ll see you later, I guess?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, “brilliant. In the library, probably—I guess you have a lot of studying to catch up on.”

“Exams are only three days away, Granger,” Draco added, smirking. “What are you going to do?”

Hermione’s face fell. “Professor Dumbledore says that all of us who were Petrified, we’re excused from having to take any exams this year.” She looked disappointed.

“Gee,” said Harry, not meaning it at all, “that’s really too bad.”

Hermione sighed. “I suppose it’s just as well,” she said reluctantly. “I’d never be able to catch up...not in just three days...but _still_. I’d like to _try_.”

“Well, if you need to borrow any notes—”

“Oh Harry! That would be great! How lovely of you!”

“—I take horrible ones,” Harry finished quickly. “You don’t want mine, really. But Draco—”

Draco was looking at Harry like he had just snapped his Nimbus in half and presented him with the broken pieces.

The rest of Harry’s words trailed off in a mumble: “takes...pretty...good ones...um.”

Hermione looked doubtful. “Oh, well...that would be...er, nice, if I could borrow those, I guess...thanks, Malfoy...”

“Sure, Granger,” Draco said, between gritted teeth. “Always happy to offer charity to the less fortunate, you know.” He glared at Harry, who quickly changed the subject:

“So! Did you hear about Lockhart yet?” Harry asked loudly.

Hermione shook her head. “What about him?” she said. Her cheeks were pink.

“He’s under investigation by the Ministry!” said Harry cheerfully.

“What!” Hermione cried.

Harry handed over the newspaper. “Yep,” he said happily, “turns out he was a fraud.”

“Oh no!” Hermione exclaimed, “that’s horrible!”

Behind her, Weasley was trying hard to hide his grin. He caught Harry’s eye, and the two of them had to quickly look away from one another, so as not to laugh.

“Come on Hermione,” Weasley said, “you’ve got to be hungry, after spending three months as a statue. You can read all about Lockhart while you eat.”

“Okay,” Hermione replied, distractedly pouring over the newspaper article. “Thanks, Harry,” she said, “I’ll see you later...”

Harry watched the Gryffindors return to their table. He felt strangely light, like an invisible weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “Wan t to go play some Quidditch?” he asked his friends.

“What about the library?” Draco said sourly.

“Plenty of time to study,” Harry said, waving his friend’s concerns away. “It’s too nice a day outside to waste it all in the library. Exams aren’t until Tuesday, anyway.”

 

The rest of the final term passed in a haze of blazing sunshine. Hogwarts was finally back to normal—save for the lack of Defense Against the Dark Arts classes (“although I don’t know how much better we could do there, after facing down the Dark Lord himself,” Draco said, shuddering). And, in a quiet moment when Draco wasn’t looking, Colin Creevey finally got his signed photograph. Harry’s friends were finally all getting along (more or less), Slytherin again won the House Cup (with all due accolades given to Harry and his friends), people were no longer skirting around Harry in the hallways, and Ginny Weasley looked perfectly happy again.

To Harry’s guilty surprise, he managed to scrape decent marks in all his exams, even in History which he had been sure he’d failed. He wondered if Dumbledore had stepped in and insisted that the teachers cut Harry a break, because of the Chamber of Secrets. If so, Harry thought, this heroism stuff really paid off. One hundred points for Slytherin, and easy grades, too. No wonder Lockhart had tried to make a career out of it.

 

Too soon, it was time for the journey home on the Hogwarts Express. Harry, Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle got a compartment to themselves. They made the most of the last few hours in which they were allowed to do magic before the holidays. They played with Draco’s miniature Quidditch pitch, had a few games of Exploding Snap (Crabbe would be going home without his eyebrows), and practiced dueling—or at least, Harry and Draco did, while Crabbe and Goyle applauded their spellwork. Harry was getting much better at jinxes.

They were almost at King’s Cross when Hermione Granger knocked on the compartment door.

“I just wanted to wish you—well, all of you—a good summer,” she said.

“I doubt it,” Harry said grimly, “but thanks anyway.”

“Right—well—all right then—”

“Hermione, wait!”

Hermione’s bushy head peered back into their compartment.

Harry pulled out his quill and a bit of parchment. “It’s a shame you lot don’t have telephones,” he said to his fellow Slytherins, “but—”

“A what?”

“A Muggle thing for talking to people far away,” Harry distractedly explained to Goyle. He scribbled his number down and handed the parchment to Hermione. “I can’t stand another two months with only Dudley to talk to, and the Dursleys won’t let me use Hedwig. Call me there, okay?”

“Of course, Harry,” said Hermione. “My parents are planning a trip, but that obviously won’t be all summer, so—”

“Father can take care of the Muggles for you,” Draco interrupted. “He’ll make sure they understand that you need to be able to send post.”

“I don’t know,” said Harry, “the Dursleys are pretty stubborn...”

“You said they were scared of him, right?” Draco smirked. “Don’t worry about it.”

Harry grinned. He didn’t think even Lucius Malfoy could convince Uncle Vernon to allow wizarding letters into the house, but he could hope. “Cool,” he said, “thanks.”

The Hogwarts Express slowed and finally stopped.

Hermione ran off to collect her things, and Harry and his friends joined the crowd thronging toward the enchanted barrier. Draco leaned over to Crabbe and Goyle, and whispered last-minute instructions for the summer: “Pretend you don’t know what they’re talking about, if your parents try asking you any questions about the Chamber, or the Heir—that shouldn’t be too hard for you to do.”

“Do you think your parents will be mad at you?” Harry asked. “For doing something so dangerous?”

“They certainly won’t be proud,” Draco replied darkly.

“Still...we all made it out okay...” Harry ventured.

Draco’s grim expression didn’t lighten. “Well what about your Muggles?” he asked. “You think _they’ll_ be proud?”

“Are you crazy?” said Harry. “All those times I could’ve died, and I didn’t manage it? They’ll be furious.”

And together they walked back through the gateway to the Muggle world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for coming along with me on Harry's second year in Slytherin, and thank you for all the lovely comments, questions, and words of encouragement. And thank you most especially for helping me ponder the question of Peter Pettigrew!
> 
> Before you ask, I am already working on the third part of this series, although it will probably be some time before I start posting anything. I hope you'll come back, and see where Harry's new life takes him, us, and the unsuspecting Wizarding World.


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